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PREFACE. 


This  selection  from  Ruskin's  writings  is  intended 
primarily  for  the  use  of  students  :  students  whether  in 
the  school,  the  college,  or  the  great  University  of  the 
World.  There  are  many  volumes  of  passages  from 
Ruskin  chosen  for  their  beauty,  or  for  their  bearing  on 
some  special  theme  :  it  is  believed  that  no  collection  has 
existed  which  aimed  to  present  a  suggestive  summary  of 
all  the  varying  phases  of  his  work,  and  to  initiate  the 
serious  student  into  the  most  valuable  portions  of  his 
thought.  Yet  there  is  perhaps  no  author  more  helpful, 
not  only  for  the  intrinsic  beauty  and  value  of  his  writ- 
ings, but  for  his  vital  relation  to  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  the  life  of  the  century.  And,  if  the  function  of 
the  middleman  is  ever  legitimate  in  literature,  it  is 
surely  legitimate  in  the  case  of  a  writer  like  Ruskin  ; 
for  the  very  voluminousness  of  his  works  stands  be- 
tween him  and  popular  knowledge. 

The  principles  by  Avhich  the  selections  have  been 
chosen  are,  first,  to  find  passages  fairly  typical  of 
Ruskin's  most  characteristic  modes  of  thought  and  to 


iv  PREFACE. 

place  them,  in  just  proportion,  under  clearly  defined 
heads :  second,  to  represent  as  many  of  his  books  as 
possible  :  third,  to  avoid,  so  far  as  consistent  with  the 
other  two  principles,  passages  hackneyed  from  use  in 
otiier  collections.  The  text  of  the  book  has  been  care- 
fully corrected,  sentence  by  sentence,  by  Euskin's  author- 
ized English  edition,  and  it  is  hoped  that  few  errors 
will  be  found. 

Volumes  of  selections  are  poor  things  at  best,  yet  they 
too  may  have  their  place  if  they  make  manifest  beauty, 
suggest  wealth  of  thought,  and  stimulate  the  reader  to 
seek  the  greater  intimacy  of  the  writer.  Such  volumes 
serve  the  part  of  introductions  in  society :  and  so  this 
little  book  would  ask  to  be  considered  simply  as  an 
introduction  to  a  man  whose  more  intimate  friendship  is 
a  privilege  which  may  well  be  sought. 

ViDA    D.    SCUDDER. 
Wellesley  College,  October,  1890. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 1 

RUSKIN  THE  REVEALER  OF  NATURE:  — 

The  Conseckatiox 31 

Studies 35 

Vignettes 57 

Interpketations 62 

RUSKIN  THE    CRITIC   OF  ART  :  — 

The  Grounds  of  Art 87 

The  Imagination 92 

The  Development  of  Landscape  Art     .        .        .  115 

Sacked  Colouk 122 

The  Conditions  of  Art 131 

RUSKIN   THE    STUDENT   OF  SOCIOLOGY:  — 

Principles  and  Facts 141 

Fallacies 161 

Prospect  and  Present  Duty 178 

The  Merchant  Chivalry 182 

St.  George's  Guild 189 

RUSKIN   THE   TEACHER   OF   ETHICS:  — 

The  Day  of  Life 198 

Knowledge  and  Spirit 206 

Liberty  and  Obedience 208 

Aphorisms 219 

Letter  to  Young  Girls 224 

Trance 231 

World's  "Work 233 

World's  Worth 244 

NOTES 247 


INTRODUCTION. 


I. 

JOHN    RUSKIN    IN    HIS    CENTURY. 

No  man  is  a  wider  exponent  of  the  life  and  thought 
of  the  nineteenth  century  than  John  Ruskin.  Other 
men  are  greater,  stronger  in  thought,  more  balanced  in 
character,  mightier  in  creative  power ;  but  no  one  has 
turned  upon  the  complex  modern  world  a  nature  more 
keen  in  appreciative  insight,  more  many-sided,  sensitive, 
and  pure.  Two  writers.  Browning  and  Carlyle,  will  be 
recognized  by  the  twentieth  century  as  prophets  of  the 
age  that  is  passing  away.  Their  message  has  rung  like 
a  trumpet-call  through  the  years.  Two  others,  Tenny- 
son and  Ruskin,  will  be  recognized  as  interpreters.  All 
shifting  phases  of  thought,  passion,  problem,  and  faith 
have  been  reflected  and  preserved  by  spiritual  alchemy 
in  the  polished  mirrors  of  their  souls. 

In  1819,  the  same  year  which  saw  the  birth  of  Ruskin, 
a  girl-baby  in  Warwickshire  began  to  absorb  that  per- 
ception of  rural  Englisli  beauty  which  was  to  be  shared 
with  all  the  world  through  the  pages  of  "  Adam  Bede  " 
and  •'  The  Mill  on  the  Floss."     George  Eliot  and  Ruskin 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

are  exact  contemporaries.  The  England  into  which  they 
were  born  was  the  old-fashioned  England  of  stage- 
coaches and  gentle  leisure.  Railroads  and  telegraphs 
were  unknown,  and  the  change  from  the  old  order  to  an 
industrial  and  mechanical  civilization  was  not  yet  com- 
pleted. Politically  it  was  a  time  of  outward  pause  ;  the 
excitement  of  the  French  Revolution  had  passed  away, 
yet  the  great  outburst  of  song  which  had  heralded  and 
accompanied  the  Revolution  still  echoed  in  men's  ears. 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Byron,  Keats,  were 
still  living,  but  a  few  short  years  were  all  the  younger 
men  were  to  see  on  earth,  while  in  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  the  poet,  though  not  the  man,  had  died.  Scott 
was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  *'  Waverley  "  had  been  pub- 
lished in  1816,  and  the  English  public  was  carried  away, 
through  Ruskin's  childhood,  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
great  romantic  movement  which  Ruskin  himself  was  to 
do  so  much  to  enlarge  and  to  direct.  Tennyson  and 
Browning  were  little  boys  of  ten  and  seven.  Far  nortli, 
in  Scotland,  a  Scottish  youth,  rough,  uncouth,  unhappy, 
was  garnering,  in  the  tumult  of  dark  spiritual  experience 
and  of  external  hardship,  the  bitter  yet  tender  wisdom 
which  was  to  fling  itself  in  fruitful  words  on  the  pages 
of  "  Sartor  Resartus." 

Of  struggles,  inward  or  outward,  the  little  Ruskin 
knew  but  fcAV.  Only  son  of  a  rich  wine-merchant,  the 
sheltered  simplicity  of  his  life  had  little  in  common 
with  such  rough  training  as  strengthened  the  sturdy 
fibres  of  the  Scottish  peasant.  Yet  in  one  teaching  the 
cottage  at  Ecclefechan  and  the  villa  at  Heme  Hill  were 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

agreed.  Chapter  by  chapter,  verse  by  verse,  the  little 
boy,  like  Carlyle  before  him,  read  the  Bible  over  and 
over  before  his  strict  and  devoted  mother.  Always 
reverent  and  docile  in  temperament,  he  seems  to  have 
followed  with  entire  obedience,  if  sometimes  with  weari- 
ness, her  minutely  rigid  method.  Many  long  passages 
were  learned  by  rote  if  not  by  heart,  till  liis  whole 
nature  became  steeped  in  the  language  and  spirit  of 
that  mighty  book  which  has  for  centuries  nurtured  the 
noblest  English  souls.  "And  truly,"  he  says,  "though 
I  have  picked  up  the  elements  of  a  little  further  knowl- 
edge in  mathematics,  meteorology,  and  the  like,  in  after 
life,  and  owe  not  a  little  to  the  teaching  of  other  people, 
this  maternal  installation  of  my  mind  in  that  property 
of  chapters  I  count  very  confidently  the  most  precious, 
and,  on  the  whole,  the  one  essential  part  of  all  my 
education." 

'  Apart  from  the  Bible,  Ruskin's  chief  early  reading 
was  in  Homer,  Scott,  and  Byron,  all  of  whom  he  still 
loves  with  fidelity  unshaken.  Yet  that  gradual  awaken- 
ing of  the  spirit  within,  which  we  call  education,  came 
to  him  less  through  the  mind  than  through  the  eye. 
From  the  time  he  was  four  years  old  the  family  lived 
out  of  town,  and  in  a  large,  old-fashioned,  sweet  garden 
the  child  spent  most  of  his  time,  contented  and  solitary, 
learning  to  observe  and  to  receive.  In  the  summers  the 
family  took  the  most  delightful  of  vacations,  driving  in 
leisurely  fashion  through  England,  Scotland,  and  later 
Switzerland.  These  journeys  opened  to  the  lad  a  fairy- 
land of  wonders.     From  babyhood  he  had  been  raptur- 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

ously  alive  to  beauty,  like  Wordsworth's  child  in  the 
famous  ode.  When  he  was  only  three  years  old,  and 
was  asked  by  a  portrait  painter  what  background  he 
would  like  in  the  picture  of  his  little  self,  he  had  decid- 
edly and  swiftly  answered,  "blue  hills."  Such  a  nature, 
passionately  contemplative,  was  enriched  to  the  utmost 
by  the  absorption  in  early  youth  of  much  of  the  noblest 
and  loveliest,  both  in  art  and  nature,  that  Europe  could 
furnish.  When  he  was  twelve  years  old  a  friend  gave 
him  Rogers's  Italy  with  illustrations  by  Turner.  Im- 
mediately there  sprang  up  within  him  that  profound 
and  ardent  discipleship  which  was  to  form  the  constrain- 
ing loyalty  of  twenty  years  of  his  life.  Thus  his  quiet 
childhood  slipped  into  youth,  the  love  of  art  —  architect- 
ure and  painting  —  and  the  passion  for  poetry  being  sup- 
plemented in  a  way  perhaps  somewhat  unusual  by  a  stroug 
bent  towards  scientific  study.  Euskin  himself  sums  up 
his  early  life  for  us  :  "  For  best  and  truest  beginning  of 
all  blessings,  I  had  been  taught  the  perfect  meaning  of 
peace,  in  thought,  act,  and  word.  .  .  .  Next  to  this  quite 
priceless  gift  of  peace,  I  had  received  the  perfect  under- 
standing of  the  natures  of  obedience  and  faith :  .  .  . 
these  three  for  chief  good ;  next  to  these,  the  habit  of 
fixed  attention  with  both  eyes  and  mind  —  on  which  I 
will  not  further  enlarge  at  this  moment,  this  being  the 
main  practical  faculty  of  my  life." 

In  1836  he  went  to  Oxford,  and  was  entered  at  Christ 
Church,  the  richest  and  most  aristocratic  of  the  colleges, 
as  a  gentleman  commoner.  The  stern  old  city  with  its 
austere  grace  laid  its  spell  upon  him,  and  he  entered 


TxrnoDrcTioy.  5 

with  some  earnestness  into  the  life,  social  and  literary, 
of  the  best  English  youth.  But  his  great  enthusiasm 
was  still  for  art,  and  for  Turner's  pictures.  In  time 
this  enthusiasm  assumed  the  form  of  indignant  champion- 
ship. Turner  was  unquestionably  the  greatest  landscape 
painter  that  the  world  had  seen,  but  his  works  were 
hard  to  understand  from  their  very  novelty  of  method ; 
aiid,  though  not  without  recognition,  he  was  at  this  time 
attacked  and  ridiculed  in  some  of  the  leading  reviews. 
Ruskin,  with  impetuous  chivalry,  hastened  to  defend 
him  in  a  letter  to  a  magazine.  As  he  wrote,  ideas 
pressed  upon  him  :  the  letter  grew  to  a  pamphlet.  Still 
he  found  himself  "  compelled  "  to  "  amplify,"  and  when 
at  last  he  paused,  it  was  to  find  completed  an  entire 
book,  inquiring  into  the  true  principles  of  painting,  and 
defending  modern  art.  This  was  the  first  volume  of 
"  Modern  Painters,"  given  to  the  world  in  1843. 

Euskin  was  at  this  time  twenty-four  years  old.  His 
nature  was  ardently  attuned  to  all  high  things.  He  had 
entered  into  the  richest  heritage  that  life  could  offer, 
with  one  great  exception  —  he  had  never  known  struggle, 
and  he  had  never  known  serious  pain.  Full  of  high 
possibilities  he  thus  had  still  the  immaturity  of  the 
eager  boy.  But  henceforth  his  growth  was  to  be  before 
the  public,  and  this  fact  may  account  for  much  seeming 
weakness  and  inconsistency.  Carlyle  was  thirty-nine 
before  he  reached  any  general  recognition.  George 
Eliot  at  thirty-six  had  given  nothing  to  the  world.  But 
Ruskin  shared  with  the  British  public  the  freshness 
and  the  crudity  of  his  first  impressions,  and  from  this 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

time  his  growth  and  change  may  be  traced  unfailingly 
through  the  long  sequence  of  his  famous  books. 

"Modern  Painters,"  this  first  volume,  was  received 
with  derision  by  the  art  critics,  with  amazed  applause 
by  the  public.  Thus,  almost  by  chance,  the  direction 
of  Buskin's  energies  was  determined.  He  professes  him- 
self to  regret  that  he  has  not  been  a  geologist.  With 
the  large  views  of  youth  he  had  planned  the  work  on  a 
scale  which  required  many  volumes  for  its  completion. 
The  second  volume  followed  in  1846.  Then  Turner 
passed  to  vi'here  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace. 
Neither  abuse  nor  honour  could  touch  him  longer,  and 
with  a  more  sober  devotion  his  young  champion  studied 
slowly  for  many  years  before  he  gave  to  the  world  the 
fruits  of  his  riper  thought.  It  was  not  till  1860  that 
Volume  V.  closed  the  long  series,  which,  beginning  with 
a  defence  of  an  individual  artist,  had  extended  to  a 
broad  historical  and  comparative  study  of  art,  ancient 
and  modern,  and  had  contained  at  least  the  suggestions 
of  the  theory  of  sesthetics  which  has  proved  most  genu- 
inely and  practically  attractive  through  the  century. 
The  first  part  of  the  work  is  marked  by  the  enthusiasm 
of  youth,  by  an  intense,  unquestioning,  narrow  evangeli- 
calism ;  by  a  devout  adoration  of  beauty.  The  latter 
volumes,  increasingly  sad  in  tone,  show  swift  growth  in 
breadth,  moderation,  and  in  philosophical  and  analytic 
power. 

During  these  twenty  years  Ruskin  was  loved  and 
honoured  throughout  England  as  the  chief  interpreter  of 
beauty  in  nature  and  in  art.     His  works  were  reverently 


INTRODUCTIOy.  7 

studied  as  a  great  educational  power.  The  attitude 
towards  art  of  the  specialist  was  changed  by  his  teach- 
ing, and  the  apathetic  public  was  aroused  to  a  new 
and  intelligent  aesthetic  life.  Ruskin's  enersries  as  an 
art  critic  were  not  confined  to  "  Modern  Painters."  Two 
other  great  works,  the  "  Stones  of  Venice "  and  the 
"  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,''  gave  a  vividly  sympa- 
thetic exposition  of  Gothic  architecture  in  its  principles 
and  history";  while  many  minor  works,  devoted  to  che 
one  end  of  the  interpretation  of  art  in  its  purity  and  its 
truthfulness,  bore  witness  to  an  unceasing  devotion  of 
work.  But  a  change  was  coming.  Even  while  he  was 
absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  Italia'n  masters  or  the 
glories  of  the  Alps,  another  force,  mighty  and  insistent, 
■was  drawing  the  soul  of  Ruskin  away  from  the  service 
of  nature  and  art.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  modern 
world.  It  summoned  him  from  the  study  of  beauty  to 
the  need  of  humanity.  He  obeyed  the  call.  The  inter- 
preter of  art  became  the  social  reformer.  Since  1860 
the  chief  interest  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  life  has  been  the 
effort  to  understand  and  solve  the  problems  of  human 
sorrow  and  huinan  need. 

No  stranger  transition  is  recorded  in  history  than  this 
which  has  turned  the  philosophical  student  of  art  into 
the  vehement  teacher  of  political  economy.  Mr.  Ruskin 
was  brought  up,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  most  conserva- 
tive of  homes  and  the  most  conservative  of  universities. 
His  temperament  was  receptive  rather  than  aggressive, 
attuned  to  the  love  of  beauty  and  the  pursuit  of  ab- 
stractions, rather  than  to  the  apprehension  of  practical 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

facts.  No  personal  grievance  drove  him  into  rebellion  : 
he  was  wealthy,  and  every  refinement  of  fair  living  was 
within  his  reach.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  a  man  like 
Carlyle  should  have  become  a  social  prophet :  race  sym- 
pathy and  severe  personal  experience  reacted  from 
without  on  an  inner  nature  militant  and  practical  to 
the  core.  But  that  a  Ruskin,  with  his  ignorance  of 
struggle,  and  his  happy,  instinctive  contentment  in 
leaves  and  pictures  and  cathedrals,  should  deliberately 
have  entered  the  rough,  hot,  wearisome  sphere  of  eco- 
nomic struggle  is  a  phenomenon  perplexing  indeed. 

Reasons  for  the  change  are  clear  to  the  thoughtful 
mind.  Euskin  and  Carlyle  start  from  opposite  poles ; 
but  both  arrive  at  the  same  centre.  And  this  because 
of  that  essential  unity  of  life  which  forces  artist  and 
philosopher,  fighter  and  dreamer,  to  remain  alike  rest- 
less, and  seeking,  each  dissatisfied  with  his  own  sphere 
of  energy,  so  long  as  disease  in  any  part  of  the  vast 
hurnan  organism  affects  and  vitiates  the  whole. 

The  year  1860  was  the  great  watershed  in  Ruskin's  life. 
Already,  in  the  fifth  volume  of  "  Modern  Painters,"  the 
change  which  had  passed  over  him  was  obvious  to  the 
attentive  mind.  But  two  courses  of  lectures,  published 
as  books  in  this  year,  or  somewhat  earlier,  "  The  Two 
Paths,"  and  "The  Political  Economy  of  Art,"  mark  clearly 
and  decisively  the  nature  and  cause  of  the  transition. 

Carlyle  preached  social  reform  as  the  direct  and 
necessary  condition  of  pure  living.  Buskin  was  driven 
to  it  in  seeking  for  the  necessary  condition  of  pure  art. 

There  are  two  central  themes  in  these  books :  — 


lyriiODUCTioy.  9 

First,  The  growth  of  a  purely  mechanical  civilization 
tends  to  shut  out  the  possibility  of  original,  creative 
achievement  in  art,  diverting  men  from  the  free  study 
of  organic  form,  vulgarizing  their  tastes,  and  deadening 
their  powers. 

Second,  Art  can  flourish  only  in  a  national  life  in- 
stinct with  honour,  beauty,  justice,  and  peace.  The  wide 
spread  of  social  misery  renders  such  a  national  life  im- 
possible :  therefore,  in  our  modern  world,  true  art,  or,  at 
least,  great  and  permanent  art,  cannot  exist.  Would  we 
have  pure  art  once  more,  we  must  purify  our  social  order. 

Once  these  conclusions  grasped,  Ruskin  turned  obedi- 
ently and  firmly  from  the  study  of  art  to  the  study  of 
sociology.  It  might  be  expected  that  he  would  not 
approach  this  burning  subject  after  the  conventional 
fashion.  His  next  book,  •'  Unto  This  Last,"  a  treatise 
on  the  elements  of  political  economy,  was  received  by  a 
chorus  of  angry  scorn  and  amused  pity.  The  editors  of 
the  "Cornhill  Magazine,"  in  which  it  first  came  out, 
were  obliged  to  decline  further  instalments  when  the 
first  four  chapters  had  appeared ;  but  Mr.  Ruskin 
pursued  his  way  undaunted.  As  he  (iontinued  to  think, 
and  to  formukate  his  thoughts  in  print,  the  whole  atti- 
tude of  the  English  public  towards  him  changed.  He 
had  been  loved  with  a  peculiar  tenderness  of  reverence  : 
he  became  not  so  much  hated  as  despised.  Rumors 
against  his  sanity  crept  about,  disciples  and  friends  leiFt 
him  in  isolation  :  those  who  still  clung  to  him  lamented 
his  mistaken  folly.  Goaded  to  exasperation  by  this 
treatment,  he  never,  indeed,  faltered ;  but  he  began  to 


1 0  INTR  01)  UCTION. 

express  himself  in  extreme  and  fantastic  forms,  'wliicli 
lent  color  to  the  accusations  of  his  critics.  A  lambent 
humour,  fantastic  yet  fiery,  began  to  play  through  his 
utterances  ;  and  serious-minded  Englishmen  often  found 
it  impossible  to  say  whether  he  were  in  jest  or  earnest. 
To  one  who  has  heard  Mr.  Euskin  lecture,  the  effect  of  his 
amazing  and  scathing  invectives  against  modern  civiliza- 
tion is  modified  by  the  memory  of  a  twinkle  in  a  keen, 
deep-gray  eye,  and  an  especially  gentle  lisp.  Un- 
doubtedly, many  of  his  views  and  his  Avay  of  stating 
them  became  crabbed  and  queer.  It  was  through  no 
personal  desire  tliat  he  entered  the  arena  of  social 
struggle ;  reluctantly,  rather,  and  with  many  a  wistful 
backward  glance  towards  the  world  of  calm  he  had  left. 
"  That  it  should  be  left  to  me,"  so  he  writes,  "  to  begin 
such  a  work,  with  only  one  man  in  England  —  Thomas 
Carlyle — to  whom  I  can  look  for  steady  guidance,  is  alike 
wonderful  and  sorrowful  to  me  ;  but,  as  the  thing  is  so, 
I  can  only  do  what  seems  to  me  necessary,  none  else 
coming  forwai-d  to  do  it."  Suggestions  of  Mr.  Ruskin's 
leading  principles  and  theories  in  social  science  will  be 
found  later  in  the  book.  Here,  we  can  only  say  that  his 
ideal  for  the  state  is  a  form  of  socialism  founded  not  on 
equality  but  on  justice  and  obedience.  He  did  not 
entirely  abandon  his  art-work,  but  it  became  more  and 
more  subordinate.  He  excited  the  derision  of  the 
public  by  various  practical  experiments,  on  a  small 
scale :  he  started  a  tea-shop,  for  the  sale  of  pure  tea, 
which  ignominiously  failed,  "  because,"  as  he  whimsi- 
cally   says,    "  of    my    procrastination    in    painting    my 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

sign ; "  he  attempted  to  clean  the  Augean  stables,  and, 
for  a  time,  hired  a  crossing  in  the  dirtiest  part  of 
London  kept  absolutely  clean ;  he  inveigled  certain 
young  Oxford  exquisites  to  engage  with  him  in  the 
wholesome  manual-  labor  of  road-making,  —  a  labor,  it 
may  be  added,  which  they  are  said  to  have  performed 
extremely  ill.  Comparison  with  the  great  llussian 
reformer,  Tolstoi,  suggests  itself  as  we  read  of  this 
phase  of  Mr.  Euskin's  life ;  yet  Ruskin  is,  on  the  whole, 
less  extreme,  less  literal,  than  Tolstoi.  His  passion  for 
the  highest  and  fairest  products  of  civilization  has  done 
much  to  keep  him  balanced  and  broad  in  his  ideals. 
Finally,  in  1871,  he  began  his  most  ambitious  and  pro- 
longed effort  to  realize  his  theories  in  practical  form  : 
an  effort  which,  seemingly  diffused  and  Utopian,  has  yet 
succeeded  in  clinging  to  some  reality,  despite  the  frag- 
mentary method  by  which  it  has  been  carried  out.  He 
started  a  monthly  letter,  which  he  called  by  the  fanciful 
name  of  Fors  Clavigera,  to  the  workmen  of  Great  Britain. 
Few  workmen  were,  it  is  to  be  feared,  sufficiently  exem- 
plary or  enlightened  to  spend  their  time  and  their  money 
over  Mr.  Euskin's  obscure,  if  beautiful,  mosaic  of  Scrip- 
ture exposition,  literary  allusions,  poetry,  argument,  and 
hard  fact.  Those  who  were  soon  found  that  he  meant 
miore  than  mere  talk.  The  sight  of  the  misery  of  the 
laboring  classes  and  the  evils  due,  as  he  believed,  to  an 
unrighteous  competition,  roused  him  to  indignant  speech 
and  act.  "  For  my  part,"  he  wrote,  "  T  will  put  up  with 
this  state  of  things  passively  not  an  hour  longer.  I  am 
not  an  unselfish  person  nor  an  evangelical  one  :  I  have 


1 2  INTROD  UCTION. 

no  particular  pleasure  in  doing  good,  neither  do  T  dislike 
doing  it,  so  much  as  to  expect  to  be  rewarded  for  it  in 
another  world.  But  I  simply  cannot  paint  nor  read  nor 
look  at  minerals,  nor  do  anything  else  that  I  like,  and 
the  very  light  of  the  morning  sky,  when  there  is  any,  — 
which  is  seldom  nowadays,  near  London,  —  has  become 
hateful  to  me  because  of  the  misery  I  know  of,  and  see 
signs  of  where  I  know  it  not,  which  no  imagination  can 
interpret  too  bitterly.  Therefore,  as  I  have  said,  I  will 
endure  it  no  longer  qiiietly  ;  but  henceforward,  with  any 
few  or  many  who  will  help,  do  my  poor  best  to  abate 
this  misery." 

The  direct,  obvious  result  of  Ruskin's  action  was  the 
formation  of  that  Guild  of  St.  George  wliich  will  be 
found  described  later.  He  has  himself  been  consistent, 
in  deed  as  in  word.  Of  the  large  fortune  he  inherited 
from  his  father  he  has  given  away  eleven-twelfths ;  and 
his  best  energy  and  genius  during  the  last  twenty  years 
have  been  devoted  to  furthering,  directly  or  indirectly, 
the  social  cause  which  he  has  at  heart.  But  his  versa- 
tile and  sympathetic  nature  has  not  confined  itself  to 
any  one  line  of  effort.  In  1870,  and  again  in  1884,  he 
was  lecturer  on  art  in  his  own  university ;  and  the 
establishment  of  a  School  of  Art  in  Oxford  has  been  one 
of  his  best-loved  schemes.  In  his  charming  books  for 
girls  and  boys  power  of  a  different  order  has  been  mani- 
fested. Meanwhile,  his  swift  and  broad  sympathies  have 
embraced  still  another  field.  Even  in  his  youth  he 
showed  the  patient  observation,  the  reverence  for  fact, 
which  mark  the  scientific  temperament.     He  has  of  late 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

years  reverted  to  purely  scientific  studies,  and  in  "  Ethics 
of  the  Dust,"  "  Deucalion,"  and  "  Proserpina,"  has  written 
of  niineralog}^,  geology,  and  botany  in  a  charming  way, 
which,  though  often  too  independent  to  be  recognized 
by  conventional  science,  yet  gives  incentive  and  sug- 
gestion to  all  his  readers. 

Truly,  as  was  said  at  the  beginning,  the  career  of 
Ruskin  is  typical.  His  life  has  covered  many  phases, 
rising,  falling,  in  swift  succession.  Born  while  Scott 
and  Byron  were  supreme,  he  has  outlived  the  work  of 
Browning  and  of  George  Eliot.  Born  while  Adam  Smith 
was  the  one  authority  in  economics,  he  "has  lived  to  see 
the  school  of  Mill  called  antiquated,  and  swept  away  by 
a  new  and  vivid  tendency.  His  maturity  has  witnessed 
the  rise,  in  some  eases  the  full  expression,  of  the  five 
great  movements  around  which  have  been  centred  the  ac- 
tivities of  the  modern  world.  The  critical  movement, 
the  scientific  movement,  the  religious  movement,  the  artis- 
tic movement,  the  social  movement,  —  each  of  these  has 
passed  over  him ;  to  each  his  eager  and  delicate  nature 
has  stirred  responsive.  Of  two  of  these  movements  he 
has  been  at  the  very  heart.  The  artistic  movement 
was  largely  moulded,  if  not  originated,  by  his  powerful 
genius.  Concerning  his  place  and  value  in  the  social 
movement  it  is  not  yet  time  to  speak.  To  his  work  in 
this  direction  he  has  sacrificed  his  popularity,  his  health, 
and,  more  bitter  far,  his  influence.  Where  he  was  revered, 
he  is  ridiculed  ;  where  he  was  obeyed,  he  is  neglected. 
Still  the  battle  is  hot  and  the  issue  doubtful.  But  our 
judgment  of  the  value  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  economic  ideas 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

should  not  affect  ouv  profound  sense  of  the  significance 
of  his  conversion.  We  may  condemn  his  theories  as 
Utopian  extravaganzas :  all  the  more  imperious  must 
have  been  the  stress  of  the  impulse  which  drove  him 
from  the  sphere  in  which  he  was  master,  to  that  in 
which  he  is  unfit  even  to  labour.  It  is  strange  in- 
deed to  find  the  same  man  prominent  as  an  interpreter 
of  the  beautiful  and  a  student  of  the  dismal  science  of 
political  economy  :  it  is  sad  more  than  strange  if  the  inter- 
preter of  beauty  forfeits  his  own  fair  power  to  gain 
mere  self-delusion  in  exchange.  Ruskin's  is  not,  as  we 
have  said,  the  assertive  or  progressive  temperament. 
He  is,  by  choice,  no  leader  of  his  time.  He  has  never 
doubted,  except  where  doubt  was  forced  upon  him. 
Reverence  and  obedience  are  the  instinctive  watchwords 
of  his  nature.  That  such  a  man,  intensely  conserva- 
tive in  every  nerve,  should  be  relentlessly  driven  to  a 
position  considered  by  most  of  his  contemporaries  as 
dangerously  radical,  is  a  paradox  touched  with  grim 
humour  but  with  deeper  pathos.  That  he  should  be 
forced  by  modern  conditions  to  turn  from  joyous  and 
adoring  contemplation,  and,  Hamlet-like,  to  assume  the 
burden  of  the  times,  is  a  fact  on  which  we  may  well 
pause.  The  significance  is  clear  :  the  noble  sensitive- 
ness of  the  man  has  simply  felt,  a  little  before  his 
fellows,  the  new  "common  wave  of  thought"  which 
was  to  "  lift  mankind."  The  change  in  Buskin  is  the 
change  of  the  century.  From  "  Modern  Painters  "  to 
"  Fors  Clavigera,"  — this  is  the  great  transition  of  the  age. 
We  began  the  Victorian  era  with  art :  with  high  theoretic 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

enthusiasm,  with  romantic  devotion  to  the  past,  with 
reverence  for  beauty,  yet  often  with  complacent  content 
in  our  elaborate  society.  We  end  with  social  science : 
with  a  strenuous,  practical  earnestness,  with  consecra- 
tion to  human  needs,  with  deepening  humility.  Beauty 
is  not  forgotten  nor  despised.  It  is  ours,  a  precious  pos- 
session forever.  But  it  has  led  us  to  something  beyond 
itself,  —  to  the  conception  of  that  perfect  state  where 
alone  it  can  be  perfectly  realized.  It  is  because  John 
Ruskin,  more  than  any  other  one  man  in  England,  has 
felt  these  two  influences  of  Art  and  Humanity,  that  we 
are  eager  to  study  him  :  it  is  because  he  has  reflected 
them  both  in  a  nature  clear,  reverent,  and  true,  and 
through  words  beautiful  since  sincere,  that  we  trust  our 
study  of  even  a  few  selections  from  his  writings  to  leave 
us  richer  than  it  found  us,  in  thought  and  life. 


16  INTRODUCTION. 


11. 


CHRONOLOGICAL     LIST     OF     THE    MORE     IMPORTANT    WRIT- 
INGS   OF    JOHN    RUSKIN. 

The  Poetry  of  Architecture.     Papers  contributed  to  the 
Architectural  Mao;aziue,  1837-1839.     Siirned  Kata  Phusin. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  I.     By  a  Graduate  of  Oxford. 
1843. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  II.     1846. 

The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture.    By  John  Ruskin. 
1849.     (Henceforth  Ruskin  publislied  under  his  own  name.) 

Poems.     Collected  1859. 
The  Stones  op  Venice.     1851-1853. 
Notes  on  the  Construction  of  Sheepfolds.     (Concern- 
ing theories  of  the  Church.)     1851. 

Lectures  on  Architecture.     1853. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  III.     1856. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  IV.     1856. 

1  The  Political  Economy  of  Art.    1857. 

The  Elements  of  Drawing.     1857. 

The  Two  Paths.     Lectures  on  Art  and  its  Application  to 
Decoration  and  Manufacture.     1860. 

Modern  Painters.     Vol.  V.     1860. 
-'Unto  This  Last.     1860. 
munera  pulveris.    1863. 

1  Lectures  afterwards  published  under  the  title  "  A  Joy  For  Ever." 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

Sesame  and  Lilies.     1865. 

Ethics  of  the  Dust.     1865. 

/The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive.     1866. 
•  Time  and  Tide.     Twenty-five  Letters  to  a  Working- INIan  of 
Sunderland  on  the  Laws  of  Work.     1867. 

The  Queen  of  the  Aik.  A  Stud}'  of  the  Greek  Myths  of 
Cloud  and  Storm.     1869. 

Lectures  on  Art,  delivered  before  the  University  of 
Oxford.     1870. 

Jfoks  Clavigera.     IVIonthly  Letters  to  the  Woi'kmen   and 
Labourers  of  Great  Britain.     1871-1878. 

Aratra  Pentelici.     On  the  Elements  of  Sculpture. 

The  Eagle's  Nest.  The  Relation  of  Natural  Science  to 
Art.     1872. 

Ariadne  Florentina.     Lectures  on  Engraving.     1872. 

Proserpina.     Studies  of  AVayside  Flowers.     1876. 

Deucalion.  Collected  Studies  of  the  Lapse  of  Waves  and 
Life  of  Stones.     1878. 

Mornings  in  Florence.    1877. 

St.  ]\Iark's  Rest.     1877. 

The  Laws  of  Fesole.     1878. 

The  Art  of  England.    Oxford  Lectures.     1884. 

The  Pleasures  of  England.     Oxford  Lectures.     1885. 

Our  Fathers  have  told  Us.  Sketches  of  the  History  of 
Christendom  for  Boys  and  Girls  who  have  been  held  at  its 
Fonts.     Part  I.     The  Bible  of  Amiens.     1885. 

Preterita.    Scenes  of  my  Past  Life.     1887. 


1 8  IN  IRQ  I)  UC  TION. 


III. 

THE    ACHIEVEMENT    OF    RUSKIN, 

EusKiN  has  not  only  been  one  of  the  most  representa- 
tive men  of  the  century,  he  has  also  been  one  of  its 
most  potent  influences.  The  influence,  like  that  of  all 
finest  things,  has  been  in  great  measure  impalpable  and 
elusive.  The  best  results  of  his  life  are  written  in  the 
souls  he  has  awakened  to  the  love  of  beauty  and  the 
vision  of  the  right.  Yet  there  are  certain  definite,  prac- 
tical changes  in  the  attitude  of  the  average  man,  which 
may  be  traced  with  reasonable  assurance  to  his  teaching. 

At  the  time  when  Ruskin  began  to  write,  England 
was  suffering  from  an  invasion  of  ugliness.  From  house- 
hold furnishings  to  ecclesiastical  arcliitecture  the  artistic 
ideal  of  the  time  was  perhaps  meaner  than  at  any  date 
before  or  since.  One  or  two  of  the  many  reasons  for 
this  degradation  lie  on  the  surface.  First,  came  the 
supplanting  of  hand-work  by  machinery.  All  through 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  even  through  the  eighteenth  cent- 
ury and  the  time  of  Queen  Anne,  men  used  themselves 
to  build  and  decorate  their  houses  and  to  weave  their 
garments.  But  when  steam  power  was  discovered,  two- 
thirds  of  the  work  which  had  been  done  by  hand  was 
given  over  to  machines.  For  a  time  men  fancied  that 
nothing  was  worth   doing  which  could  not  be   accom- 


introduction:  19 

plished  by  these  wondrous  automatic  slaves.  Tliey 
were  never  tired  of  seeing  how  many  yards  of  brilliant 
carpets,  how  many  articles  of  showy  furniture,  could  be 
turned  out  in  less  time  than  the  faithful,  old-fashioned 
hand-work  would  have  given  to  one  article.  But  really 
artistic  or  beautiful  objects  can  only  result  from  the 
personal  impress  of  the  worker  on  his  work ;  and  as  a 
result  of  this  wholesale  method  of  production,  a  mechani- 
cal, gaudy,  vulgarized  style  pervaded  almost  every  form 
of  industry  and  reacted  upon  the  fine  arts.  This  was  one 
reason  for  the  dreary  dearth  of  true  beauty ;  another 
may  perhaps  be  found  in  the  prevailing  religious  attitude 
of  the  day.  Most  of  the  people  sensitive  to  spiritual 
things  were  then  evangelicals.  Now  the  evangelicals 
were  in  theory  ascetics.  Their  peculiar  form  of  faith 
derived  obviously  from  the  Methodists,  who  had  been,  as 
a  rule,  unlettered  people,  indifferent  to  fineness  or  art ; 
by  more  indirect  and  subtle  means  it  continued  in  many 
respects  the  old  Puritan  traditions  of  England.  An 
evangelical  drew  a  sharp  distinction  between  the  things 
of  this  world  and  the  next :  all  outside  a  certain  sphere 
of  religious  dogma  and  emotion  was  to  him  "  vile  earth  " 
or  "  worldly  dross."  Thus  he  feared  and  despised  physi- 
cal beauty  as  a  vanity,  if  not  a  dangerous  temptation. 
The  Oxford  Movement  (1833-184G)  did  something  to 
fight  against  this  feeling  and  to  bring  back  beauty  and 
learning  to  the  service  of  the  Church.  But  the  Oxford 
Movement  itself  was  tinctured  Avith  asceticism.  It  Avas 
ecclesiastical,  not  universal.  It  appreciated  gladly  the 
solemn  glory  of  the  cathedral  where  pillared  nave  and 


20  INTRODUCTIOY. 

burning  windows  shielded  a  ritual  symbolically  fair,  but 
it  was  blind  to  the  beauty  of  the  forest  and  the  sky. 

Ruskin  himself  was  born  and  bred  in  the  evangelical 
religion  and  in  the  crudities  of  a  mechanical  luxury ; 
but  he  was  destined  to  counteract  many  of  the  tenden- 
cies of  both.  The  first  work  which  he  did,  or  helped  to 
.  do,  was  to  recall  people  to  the  perception  of  true  beauty, 
and  to  the  faith  that  all  beaut}^  is  the  consecrated  reve- 
lation of  God,  not  to  be  distrusted  as  a  dangerous  snare, 
but  to  be  received  with  reverent  delight.  Our  great 
century  has  seen  no  greater  change  than  this.  Ruskin's 
method  of  interpretation  was  from  the  first  singularly 
fearless  and  high.  In  the  second  volume  of  "  Modern 
Painters"  he  sought  the  sources  and  analogues  of  the 
different  elements  of  beauty  in  tlie  Divine  Nature  itself, 
in  energy,  justice,  infinity,  moderation,  permanence.  "  I 
have  long  believed,"  he  writes  in  the  "  Stones  of  Venice," 
"that  in  whatever  has  been  made  by  the  Deity  exter- 
nally delightful  to  the  human  sense  of  beauty,  there  is 
some  type  of  God's  nature  or  of  God's  laws."  This, 
principle  pervades  not  only  "  Modern  Painters,"  but 
nearly  all  Mr.  Ruskin's  important  works.  Whether  it 
be  correct  or  no,  he  accomplished  two  ends  :  he  vindi- 
cated the  sanctity  of  art  and  beauty,  and  he  gave  to 
them  a  new  zest  of  interest  in  the  mind  of  the  public. 
Always  his  treatment  was  human.  Theories  of  art  w«:rre 
then  dry,  formal,  technical,  and  the  world  did  not  trouble 
its  mind  over  them.  Ruskin  discussed  art  in  a  way  that 
people  could  understand.  He  defended  modern  artists  ; 
he  pleaded  for  the  re-introduction  of  passion,  simplicity, 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

truth.  He  gave  the  whole  svibject  new  life.  And  he 
succeeded  in  making  the  general  public  both  ardent  and 
intelligent,  in  awakening  them,  first  to  honour  beauty, 
and  then  to  pursue  it.  The  new  impulse  is  extending 
into  the  minutest  details  of  practical  art.  If  our  houses 
are  prettier  than  the  houses  of  our  fathers  —  they  are 
not  yet,  alas,  so  pretty  as  those  of  our  great-grandfathers, 
—  the  change  is  largely  due  to  Mr.  Ruskin.  The  whole 
movement  loosely  known  as  aestheticism  goes  back  to 
his  works  for  the  inspiration  of  its  origin,  though  it 
departs  widely  from  him  in  its  development,  ^stheti- 
cism  is  absurd  enough  when  caricatured  by  enemies  or 
friends ;  yet  it  has  meant  on  the  Avhole  a  healthy  return 
to  sound  principles  of  workmanship,  and  simple  and 
graceful  conditions  of  life. 

One  of  the  most  effective  ways  in  which  Euskin 
brought  people  back  to  a  wholesome  love  of  beauty  was 
through  quickening  in  them  the  love  of  nature,  —  of  the 

.fair  sky  above  them  and  the  fertile  earth  beneath.  Not 
that  such  love  was  first  preached  by  Ruskin.  To  find 
the  pioneers  of  the  great  movement  which  has  led  men 
by  the  roads  of  science  and  of  poetry  back  to  the  heart 
of  nature  and  bade  them  rest  there,  we  must  return  to 
the  eighteenth  century.  During  Ruskin's  youth  the 
priests  of  nature,  AVordsworth  and  Shelley  first  and 
chief,  were  unveiling  her  mysteries.  But  they  wrote  in 
poetry,  and  poets  and  their  ideas  have  to  be  translated 
into  prose  before  we  can  be  sure  of  their  general  or  per- 
manent effect.     Ruskin  was  the  first   prose  author  of 

f'importance  in  whose  works  the  loving  interpretation  of 


r, 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

nature  formed  a  leading  phase.  Thus  he  marks  in  a 
sense  the  transition  when  this  love  became  no  longer  an 
eccentric  thing,  branding  the  man  who  held  it  as  a 
mystic  or  a  fool,  but  a  general  heritage  into  which  were 
to  enter  all  gentle  and  right-minded  people.  Ruskin's 
studies  of  nature  are  among  the  most  valuable,  and  will 
very  likely  form  the  most  permanent  portions  of  his 
books. 

Several  definite  facts  in  the  history  of  modern  activity 
can  be  traced  to  Ruskin.  One  of  the  chief  art  move- 
ments of  modern  times  is  directly  connected  with  his 
teaching.  In  1848  a  few  young  men,  disgusted  with 
false  sublimity  and  cold  reverence  for  the  antique,  united 
in  a  little  band  that  called  itself  the  Pre-Eaphaelite 
Brotherhood.  Three  of  them  have  since  become  famous  : 
their  names  are  John  Everett  Millais,  Dante  Gabriel 
Eossetti,  and  Holman  Hunt.  They  began  to  exhibit 
pictures  which  hurled  defiance  at  all  the  accepted  canons 
of  art;  pictures  strange  in  color  and  drawing,  bearing 
witness  to  feeling  passionate  and  often  devout,  and  to 
study  of  nature  minutely  truthful,  pictures  that  returned 
in  simplicity  of  method  and  spirit  to  the  work  of  the 
early  Italian  painters  before  Raphael  and  the  Renas- 
cence. INlr.  Ruskin  constituted  himself  the  champion  of 
these  young  men  ;  they  were  the  exponents  of  the  prin- 
ciples in  art  for  which  he  lived  ;  much  and  eloquently 
he  wrote  in  their  defence.  As  years  have  passed,  the 
movement  has  in  some  respects  departed  from  its  orig- 
inal character ;  yet  it  has  been  continued  by  at  least  two 
men,   Burne-Jones   and   Watts,   equal    in   power   to   its 


introduction:  23 

founders,  and  the  magnitude  and  unique  quality  of  their 
work  bear  witness  to  the  strength  and  vitality  of  the 
original  impulse. 

In  one  other  important  direction  the  influence  of 
Ruskin  on  the  art  of  the  century  cannot  be  ignored :  in 
the  revival  of  an  enthusiasm  for  Gothic  architecture. 
The  pseudo-classic  architecture  which  was  revived  m 
the  Kenascence  had  flourished,  degenerated,  and  yet 
prevailed.  The  Gothic  was  despised  as  the  building  of 
barbarian  rudeness,  unfit  for  civilized  respect.  The  re- 
kindling of  intelligent  love  for  Gothic  may  be  traced 
to  many  causes  ;  Ruskin's  teaching  is  only  one  strand 
in  the  web  woven  also  of  the  romantic  passion  for  the 
Middle  Ages  illustrated  by  Scott,  and  the  quickening  of 
the  Catholic  spirit  illustrated  by  Keble.  But  no  one 
cause,  perhaps,  has  done  so  much  to  give  the  interest  in 
architecture  a  practical  as  well  as  a  sentimental  bent,  as 
Ruskin's  devotion. 

When  we  pass  from  Ruskin's  influence  in  art  to  his 
work  in  social  science,  we  find  ourselves  on  less  certain 
ground.  It  is  impossible  here  to  attempt  an  estimate 
/of  the  value  of  his  achievement.  The  laughter  of  the 
British  public  counts  for  little.  It  may  be  conceded  at 
once  that  Mr.  Ruskin  chooses  strange  titles  for  his 
books,  titles  poetic  rather  than  utilitarian,  tinged  with  a 
delicate,  often  a  recondite,  fancy.  It  is  certainly  hard 
to  trust  the  practical  good  sense  of  a  m^an  who  calls  a 
treatise  on  Political  Economy  "  Unto  This  Last,"  or 
"  Munera  Pulveris."  He  interweaves  discussions  of 
the  law  of  wages  with   interpretations  of  queer  Greek 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

myths,  or  with  fragments  of  philology.  Moreover,  he 
has  an  inconvenient  habit  of  constantly  dragging  in  as 
witness  and  authority,  even  in  the  most  modern  and 
practical  of  discussions,  the  simple  words  of  the  Bible. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  the  average  man  eyes  him  askance, 
and  talks  about  "  Political  Economy  in  the  moon." 
Nevertheless,  till  it  be  proved  that  there  can  be  no 
rational  connection  between  fact  and  poetry,  and  that 
Greek  thought  or  Hebrew  thought  has  positively  no 
business  to  influence  English  thought,  logical  grounds 
for  despising  Mr.  Ruskin  have  not,  we  must  confess, 
been  discovered.  True,  many  of  his  schemes  bear  in 
detail  the  mark  of  the  poet  and  the  idealist  rather  than 
of  the  practical  man  ;  as  when  he  dreams  of  a  national 
costume  or  of  the  fair  procession  in  which  youths  and 
maidens  should  annually  exult  when  judged  by  the  State 
worthy  of  marriage.  True,  he  has  a  horror  of  steam- 
machinery  which  will  not  commend  itself  to  the  business 
man,  although  his  serious  condemnation  of  steam  has 
perhaps  been  exaggerated.  Yet,  when  all  elements  of 
dreamy  vision  and  of  extreme  and  extravagant  detail 
are  withdrawn,  there  are  still  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Ruskin's 
Avritings  a  fundamental  conception  of  the  State  and  its 
laws,  and  a  systematized  suggestion  of  needed  reforms, 
which  are  not  worthy  of  contempt.  For  adequate  judg- 
ment of  his  theories  the  time  has  not  yet  come.  His 
positive  work  seems,  so  far,  to  be  represented  by  St. 
George's  Guild,  established  in  1871.  This  is  a  company  of 
men  and  women  who,  like-minded  with  himself,  are  bound 
together  under  him  as  their  master  with  the  purpose  of 


IN  TR  OD  UCTION.  25 

buying  English  land  whereon  to  establish  communities 
free  from  the  rush  of  competition  and  the  evils  of 
machinery,  and  mainly  devoted  to  the  wholesome  cultiva- 
tion  of  the  soil.  The  guild  is  small  in  numbers ;  its 
practical  work  seems  greatly  limited,  though  it  has 
established  a  museum  at  Sheffield,  and  otherwise  shown 
itself  loyal  and  ready  for  service.  Probably  its  influ- 
ence extends  far  beyond  those  who  range  themselves  as 
its  members. 
^  We  have  not  spoken  as  yet  of  the  way  in  which  Mr. 
Ruskin's  genius  has  impressed  itself  most  strongly  on 
his  generation  through  his  power  of  writing  beautiful 
English.  As  an  author  he  has  done  a  great  Avork,  in 
many  respects  a  high  work,  for  English  prose.  It  is  by 
this  power  that  he  won  his  fame,  and  that,  as  many 
critics  think,  he  will  retain  his  place  in  English  litera- 
ture when  his  theories  are  forgotten  or  no  longer  needed. 
When  the  first  volume  of  "Modern  Painters"  appeared, 
it  seemed  written  in  a  language  such  as  people  had 
never  heard  before,  —  a  language  half  way  between  poetry 
and  prose,  supple  like  prose,  yet  with  the  imaginative 
fervor  of  poetry.  It  was  full  of  passages  of  description 
where  the  melodious  sound  seemed  almost  to  present 
physical  images  to  the  senses ;  it  glowed  with  color, 
throbbed  with  music.  Yet  this  style,  exciting  and  deco- 
rated as  it  Avas,  was  built  on  a  foundation  of  pure  Eng- 
lish—  English  learned  from  the  English  Bible  and  from 
old  divines.  It  was  not  Germanized,  like  Carlyle,  nor 
Latinized,  like  Macaulay,  but  was  soundly  Saxon  in 
structure,  however  embroidered  with  strange  ornament. 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

As  Rusk  in  grew  older  he  came  to  use  word-pictures,  as 
they  are  called,  less  and  less.  The  power  to  write  them 
is  dangerous,  and  in  the  hands  of  his  imitators  has  be- 
come a  weariful  affectation.  Even  Ruskin  himself  is 
sometimes  florid  and  over-charged.  But  his  later  books, 
in  which  this  power  though  latent  is  controlled,  and  the 
power  of  clear,  straightforward  utterance  is  developed, 
are  among  the  noblest  models  of  English  we  possess. 
They  are  terse,  they  are  pure,  they  are  strong.  Some- 
times still  an  intense  feeling  is  expressed  in  exaggerated 
though  half  humourous  invective,  ortlie  author  admits  us 
to  a  whimsical  intimacy  that  proves  bewildering  ;  but 
the  passion,  when  it  does  not  forget  itself,  irradiates  the 
pages  with  a  glow  all  the  more  impressive  because  sub- 
dued. There  is  no  author  of  our  tirae  so  legitimately 
magnificent  in  his  use  of  English  as  Ruskin  when  he  is 
at  his  best. 

Ruskin  has  certainly  one  mark  of  greatness :  for  he 
defies  classification.  He  can  be  claimed  by  no  one 
school  of  artistic  thought,  social  tliought,  or  religious 
thought.  Yet  the  heart  of  his  teaching,  in  all  his  ver- 
satile books,  is  ever  the  same.  He  teaches  that  all 
beauty,  all  art,  all  work,  and  all  life,  are  holy  things  : 
that  through  them  God  manifests  Himself  to  man,  and 
man  draws  near  to  God.  ;  It  is  in  this  refei-ence  of  all 
matters  in  art  and  conduct  to  the  spiritual  standard,  and 
the  judgment  of  them  all  alike  by  a  spiritual  motive, 
that  we  shall  find  a  steady  consistency  underlying  liis 
seemingly  shifting  utterances.  In  the  unfaltering, 
though  often  sad,  devoutness  of  his  spirit,  consists  the 


IN  TROD  UCTION.  2  7 

final  claim  of  John  Rusk  in  upon  our  earnest,  faithful, 
and  reverent  study.  He  has  summed  up  for  us  his  own 
conception  of  the  meaning  of  his  life-work  in  a  passage 
in  the  seventlr  volume  of  "  Fors  Clavigera  :  "  — 

''  In  rough  approximation  of  date  nearest  to  the  com- 
pletion of  the  several  pieces  of  my  life-work,  as  they  are 
built  one  on  the  other,  —  at  twenty,  I  wrote  '  Modern 
Painters  ' ;  at  thirty,  *  The  Stones  of  Venice ' ;  at  forty, 
'  Unto  This  Last ' ;  at  fifty,  the  inaugural  Oxford  lect- 
ures ;  and,  if  '  Fors  Clavigera '  is  ever  finished  as  I 
mean,  it  will  mark  the  mind  I  had  at  sixty,  and  leave 
me,  in  the  seventh  day  of  my  life,  perhaps  —  to  rest. 
For  the  code  of  all  I  had  to  teach  will  then  be  in  form, 
as  it  is  now  at  this  hour  in  substance,  completed. 

i " '  Modern  Painters '  taught  the  claim  of  all  lower 
nature  on  the  hearts  of  men  :  of  the  rock,  and  wave,  and 
herb,  as  a  part  of  their  necessary  spirit  life  ^in  all  that  I 
now  bid  you  to  do,  to  dress  the  earth  and  keep  it,  I  am 
fulfilling  what  I  then  began.  -  'The  Stones  of  Venice' 
tauglit  the  laws  of  constructive  art,  and  the  dependence 
of  all  human  work  or  edifice  for  its  beauty  on  the  happy 
life  of  the  workman.  <  Unto  This  Last'  taught  the  laAvs 
of  that  life  itself,  and  its  dependence  on  the  Sun  of  Just- 
ice. The  inaugural  Oxford  lectures,  the  necessity  that  it 
should  be  led,  and  the  gracious  laws  of  beauty  and  labour 
recognized  by  the  upper  no  less  than  the  lower  classes 
of  England.  And  lastly,  'Fors  Clavigera'  has  declared 
the  relation  of  these  to  each  other,  and  the  only  pos- 
sible conditions  of  peace  and  honour,  for  low  and  high, 
rich    and   poor,  together,  in   the    holding   of   that   first 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

estate,  under  the  only  Despot,  God,  from  which  whoso 
falls,  angel  or  man,  is  kept,  not  mythically  nor  disput- 
ably,  but  here  in  visible  horror  of  chains  under  darkness 
to  the  judgment  of  the  great  day :  and  in  keeping  which 
service  is  perfect  freedom,  and  inheritance  of  all  that  a 
loving  Creator  can  give  to  his  creatures,  and  an  immortal 
Father  to  his  children. 

"  This,  then,  is  the  message  which,  knowing  no  more 
as  I  unfolded  the  scroll  of  it  Avhat  next  would  be  written 
there  than  a  blade  of  grass  knows  what  the  form  of  its 
fruit  shall  be,  I  have  been  led  on  year  by  year  to  speak, 
even  to  this  its  end." 


RUSKIN  THE  REVEALER  OF  NATURE. 


"  So  it  is  with  external  Nature :  she  has  a  body  and  a  soul  like  man  ; 
but  her  soul  is  the  Deity.  It  is  possible  to  represent  the  body  without 
the  spirit;  and  this  shall  be  like  to  those  whose  senses  are  only  cog- 
nizant of  body.  It  is  possible  to  represent  the  spirit  in  its  ordinary 
and  interior  manifestations;  and  this  shall  be  like  to  those  who  have 
not  watched  for  its  moments  of  power.  It  is  possible  to  represent  tlie 
spirit  in  its  secret  and  high  operations  ;  and  this  shall  be  like  only  to 
those  to  whose  watching  they  liave  been  revealed.  All  these  are 
truth;  but  according  to  the  dignity  of  the  truths  he  can  representor 
feel  is  the  power  of  the  painter,  —  the  justice  of  the  judge." 

—  Modern  Painters. 

PRELUDE. 

"  Let  us  interrogate  the  great  apparition  which  shines  so 
peacefully  around  us.     Let  us  enquire  to  what  end  is  nature." 

Thus  writes  Emerson,  and  i)roceed3  to  answer  his  own 
question.  He  tells  us  that  the  uses  of  nature  are  fourfold  : 
Commodity,  Beauty,  Language,  and  Discipline.  Commodity, 
—  the  value  of  nature  to  the  physical  man  :  here  is  the  quality 
which  appeals  to  nations  in  their  childhood,  men  in  their 
crudity,  and  forms  the  subject  of  the  lower  phases  of  physical 
science.  \  Beauty,  —  the  aspect  which  arrests  the  observant  eye 
of  the  artist7~ahd  rejoices  the  eager  soul  of  the  poet.  '^^Lan- 
guage,  — the  revelation  through  type  and  symbol  of  an  eternal 
Spirit,  beheld  shining  through  tlie  veil  of  outward  form  by  the 
mystic  of  all  ages  from  Plato  to  Carlyle.  Discipline,  —  the 
function  of  nature  as  the  great  teacherj  wlio,  through  the 
sternness  of  multiform  law,  the  tenderness  of  multiform  sus:- 


30  RUSKIN   THE  REVEALER    OF  NATURE. 

gestion,  moulds  her  child,  feon  after  oeon,  into  the  likeness  of 
the  Perfect  Man. 

Seldom,  indeed,  is  a  man  found  responsive  to  the  message 
of  nature  in  all  its  dill'urent  phases  :  dowered  at  once  witii  tlie 
temperament  of  tlie  scientist,  the  artist,  the  mystic,  and  the 
sag:e.  But  such  a  man  is  Ruskin.  lie  has  the  instinct  of  the 
scientist;  and  he  studies  the  facts  of;  the  world  around  him 
with  patience  reverent  and  minute.  .He  has  the  eye  of  the 
artist,  lovingly  sensitive  to  every  modulation  of  colour  and  of 
form ;  and  no  small  measure  has  been  vouchsafed  to  him  of 
that  creative  power  which,  whether  by  words  or  tints,  can 
reproduce  for  others  perceived  beauties.  He  has  the  soul  of 
the  mystic,  swiftly  alive  to  each  sijiritual  suggestion  latent  in 
herb  and  cloud  and  mountain.  And,  finally,  nature  is  more  to 
him  than  use,  than  beauty,  than  language.  She  is  also  the 
Sfuide  to  the  moral  being',  and  her  ultimate  value  is  in  her 
trainino^  of  the  conscience  and  the  will. 

Thus  it  is  witli  a  singularly  complete  equipment  that  Ruskin 
comes  to  us  as  an  interpreter  of  nature.  All  these  difierent 
aspects  and  different  methods  of  presentation  blend  in  his  writ- 
ing like  the  colours  in  a  gem,  and  flash  out  on  us  as  we  watch 
its  varying  lights.  To  trace  them,  one  after  another,  to  dis- 
entangle them,  to  study  their  nature  and  their  union,  is  a  fasci- 
nating possibility  which  the  thoughtful  reader  will  not  fail  to 
realize.  ^ 


THE   CONSECRATION. 


Difficult  enough  for  you  to  imagine,  tliat  old  travellers 
time,  when  Switzerland  was  3'et  the  land  of  the  Swiss,  and 
the  Alps  had  never  been  trod  by  foot  of  man.  Steam, 
never  heard  of  yet,  but  for  short,  fair-weather  crossing  at  sea 
(were  there  paddle-packets  across  Atlantic?  I  forget).  An}^- 
way,  the  roads  by  land  were  safe  ;  and  entered  once  into  this 
mountain  Paradise,  we  wound  on  through  its  balmy  glens,  past 
cottage  after  cottage  on  their  lawns,  still  glistening  in  the 
dew. 

The  road  got  into  more  barren  heights  by  the  mid-day,  the 
hills  arduous  ;  once  or  twice  we  had  to  wait  for  horses,  and  we 
were  still  twenty  miles  from  Schaffhausen  at  sunset;  it  Avas 
past  midnight  when  we  reached  her  closed  gates.  The  dis- 
turbed porter  had  the  grace  to  open  them  —  not  quite  wide 
enough  ;  we  carried  away  one  of  the  lamps  in  collision  with  the 
slanting  bar  as  we  drove  through  the  arch.  How  much  happier 
the  privilege  of  dreamily  entering  a  mediieval  city,  though 
with  the  loss  of  a  lamp,  than  the  free  ingress  of  being  jammed 
between  a  dray  and  a  tram-car  at  a  railroad  station! 

It  is  strange  that  I  but  dimly  recollect  the  following  morn- 
ing; I  fancy  we  must  have  gone  to  some  sort  of  church  or- 
other;  and  certainly,  part  of  the  day  went  in  admiring  the 
bow-windows  projecting  into  the  clean  streets.  None  of  us 
seemed  to  have  thought  the  Alps  would  be  visible  without  pro- 
fane exertion  in  climbing  hills.     We  dined  at  four,  as  usual. 


82  THE  CONSECRATION. 

and  the  evening  being  entirel}-  fine,  went  to  walk,  all  of  us,  — 
my  father  and  mother  and  ]\Iarj  and  I. 

We  must  have  still  spent  some  time  in  town  —  seeing,  ff)r  it 
was  drawing  toward  sunset  when  we  got  up  to  some  sort  of 
garden  promenade  —  west  of  the  town,  1  believe  ;  and  high 
above  the  Rhine,  so  as  to  command  the  open  country  across  it 
to  south  and  west.  At  which  open  country  of  low  undulation, 
fai-  into  blue,  —  gazing  as  at  one  of  our  own  distances  from 
Malvern  of  Worcestershire,  or  Doriiing  of  Kent,  —  suddenly 

—  behold  —  beyond. 

There  was  no  thought  in  any  of  us  for  a  moment  of  their 
being  clouds.  They  were  as  clear  as  crystal,  sharp  on  the 
pure  horizon  sky,  and  already  tinged  with  rose  by  the  sinking 
sun.    Infinitely  beyond  all  that  we  had  ever  thought  or  dreamed, 

—  the  seen  walls  of  lost  Eden  could  not  have  been  more  beau- 
tiful to  us ;  not  more  awful,  round  heaven,  the  walls  of  sacred 
Death. 

It  is  not  possible  to  imagine,  in  any  time  of  the  world,  a 
more  blessed  entrance  into  life,  for  a  child  of  such  a  tem- 
perament as  mine.  True,  the  temperament  belonged  to 
the  age :  a  very  few  years,  —  within  the  hundred.  —  before 
that,  no  child  could  have  been  born  to  care  for  the  mountains, 
or  for  the  men  that  lived  among  them,  in  that  way.  Till 
Rousseau's  time,  there  had  been  no  "  sentimental  "  love  of 
nature;  and  till  Scott's,  no  such  apprehensive  love  of  "all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men,"  not  in  the  .soul  merely,  but  in  the 
flesh.  St.  Bernard  of  La  Fontaine,  looking  out  to  Mont  Blanc, 
with  his  child's  eyes,  sees  above  Mont  Blanc  the  INIadonna;  St. 
Bernard  of  Talloires,  not  the  Lake  of  Annecy  but  the  dead 
between  Martigny  and  Aosta.  But  for  me,  the  Alps  and 
their  people  were  alike  beautiful  in  tlieir  snow,  and  th(!ir 
humanity;  and  I  wanted,  neither  for  tliem  nor  myself,  sight 
of  any  throne  in  heaven  but  the  rocks,  or  of  an 3^  spirits  in 
heaven  but  the  clouds. 


THE   CONSECRATION.  33 

Thus,  in  perfect  health  of  life  and  fire  of  heart,  not  wanting 
to  be  anything  but  the  boy  I  was,  not  wanting  to  have  anything 
more  than  I  had ;  knowing  of  sori'ow  only  just  so  much  as  to 
make  life  serious  to  me,  not  enough  to  slacken  in  the  least  its 
sinews ;  and  with  so  much  of  science  mixed  with  feeling  as  to 
make  the  sight  of  the  Alps  not  only  the  revelation  of  the  beauty 
of  the  earth,  but  the  opening  of  the  first  page  of  its  volume,  — 
I  went  down  that  evening  from  the  o;arden-ten-ace  of  Schaif- 
hausen  with  my  destiny  fixed  in  all  of  it  that  was  to  be  sacred 
and  useful.  To  that  terrace,  and  the  shore  of  the  Lake  of 
Geneva,  my  heait  and  faith  return  to  this  day,  in  every  im- 
pulse that  is  yet  nobly  alive  in  them,  and  every  thought  that 
has  in  it  help  or  peace.  —  Prceterita,  vol.  i.  chap.  vi. 


JOHN    RUSKIN. 


STUDIES. 

AIR    AXD    CLOUDS. 


The  deep  of  air  that  surrounds  the  earth  enters  into  \ 
union  with  the  earth  at  its  surface,  and  with  its  waters ; 
so  as  to  be  the  apparent  cause  of  their  ascending  into  life. 
First,  it  warms  them,  and  shades,  at  once,  staying  the 
heat  of  the  sun's  rays  in  its  own  body,  but  warding  their 
force  with  its  clouds.  It  warms  and  cools  at  once,  with 
traffic  of  balm  and  frost ;  so  that  the  white  wreaths  are 
withdrawn  from  the  field  of  the  Swiss  peasant  by  the 
glow  of  Libyan  rock.  It  gives  its  own  strength  to  the 
sea ;  forms  and  fills  every  cell  of  its  foam ;  sustains  the 
precipices,  and  designs  the  valleys  of  its  waves  ;  gives 
the  gleam  to  their  moving  under  the  night,  and  the 
Avhite  fire  to  their  plains  under  sunrise ;  lifts  their 
voices  along  the  rocks,  bears  above  them  the  spray  of 
birds,  pencils  through  them  the  dimpling  of  unfooted 
sands.  It  gathers  out  of  them  a  portion  in  the  hollow 
of  its  hand  ;  dyes,  with  that,  the  hills  into  dark  blue, 
and  their  glaciers  with  dying  rose  ;  inlays  with,  that,  for 
sapphire,  the   dome  in  which   it  has  to   set  the   cloud  ; 


83  JOHN  RrJSEIN. 

shapes  out  of  that  the  heavenly  flocks :  divides  them, 
numbers,  cherishes,  bears  them  on  its  bosom,  calls  them 
to  their  journeys,  waits  by  their  rest;  feeds  from  them 
the  brooks  that  cease  not,  and  strews  with  them  the 
dews  that  cease.  It  spins  and  weaves  their  fleece  into 
wild  tapestry,  rends  it,  and  renews  ;  and  flits  and  flames, 
and  whispers,  among  the  golden  threads,  thrilling  them 
with  a  plectrum  of  strange  fire  that  traverses  them  to 
and  fro,  and  is  enclosed  in  them  like  life. 

It  enters  into  the  surface  of  the  earth,  subdues  it,  and 
falls  together  with  it  into  fruitful  dust,  from  which  can 
be  moulded  flesh  ;  it  joins  itself,  in  dew,  to  the  substance 
of  adamant;  and  becomes  the  green  leaf  out  of  the  dry 
ground  ;  it  enters  into  the  separated  shapes  of  the  earth 
it  has  tempered,  commands  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  cur- 
rent of  their  life,  fills  their  limbs  with  its  own  lightness, 
measures  their  existence  by  its  indwelling  pulse,  moulds 
upon  their  lips  the  words  by  which  one  soul  can  be 
known  to  another  ;  is  to  them  the  hearing  of  the  ear, 
and  the  beating  of  the  heart ;  and,  passing  away,  leaves 
them  to  the  peace  that  hears  and  moves  no  more.  —  The 
Queen  of  the  Air,  sec.  98. 

f'  We  have  next  to  ask  what  colour  from  sunshine  can 
the  white  cloud  receive,  and  what  the  black  ? 

You  won't  expect  me  to  tell  you  all  that,  or  even  the 
little  that  is  accurately  known  about  that,  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour ;    yet  note  these  main  facts  on  the  matter. 

On  any  pure  white,  and  practically  opaque,  cloud,  or 
thing  like  a  cloud,  as  an  Alp,  or  jMilan  Cathedral,  you 


STUDIES.  87 

ran  liave  nast  by  rising  or  setting  sunlight,  any  tints  of 
iiiuber,  orange,  or  moderately  deep  rose  —  you  can't 
li.ive  lemon  yellows,  or  any  kind  of  green  except  in  neg- 
ative hue  by  opposition  ;  and  though  by  storm-light  you 
may  sometimes  get  the  reds  cast  very  deep,  beyond  a 
certaia  limit  you  cannot  go,  —  the  Alps  are  never  ver- 
milion colour,  nor  flamingo  colour,  nor  canary  colour; 
nor  did  you  ever  see  a  full  scarlet  cumulus  of  thunder- 
cloud. 

On  opaque  white  vapour,  then,  remember,  you  can  get 
a  glow  or  a  blush  of  colour,  never  a  flame  of  it. 

But  when  the  cloud  is  transparent,  as  well  as  pure, 
and  can  be  filled  with  light  through  all  the  body  of  it, 
you  then  can  have  by  the  light  reflected  from  its  atoms 
any  force  conceivable  by  human  mind  of  the  entire  group 
of  the  golden  and  ruby  colours,  from  intensely  burnished 
gold  colour,  through  a  scarlet  for  whose  brightness  there 
are  no  words,  into  any  depth  and  any  hue  of  Tyrian 
crimson  and  Byzantine  purple.  These  with  full  blue 
breatlied  between  them  at  the  zenith,  and  green  blue 
nearer  the  horizon,  form  the  scales  and  chords  of  colour 
possible  to  the  morning  and  evening  sky  in  pure  and 
fine  weather ;  the  keynote  of  the  opposition  being  ver- 
milion against  green  blue,  both  of  equal  tone,  and  at 
such  a  height  and  acme  of  brilliancy  that  you  cannot  see 
the  line  where  their  edges  pass  into  each  other.  —  The 
Storm-Cloud  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  lect.  i. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  although  clouds  of  course 
arrange  themselves  more  or  less  into  broad  masses,  wdth 


38  JOHN  RDSEIN. 

a  light  side  and  dark  side,  both  their  light  and  shade 
are  invariably  composed  of  a  series  of  divided  masses, 
each  of  which  has  in  its  outline  as  much  variety  and 
character  as  the  great  outline  of  the  cloud.  .  .  .  Nor 
are  these  multitudinous  divisions  a  truth  of  slight 
iniportance  in  the  character  of  sky,  for  they  are  de- 
pendent on,  and  illustrative  of,  a  quality  which  is 
usually  in  a  great  degree  overlooked,  —  the  enormous 
retiring  spaces  of  solid  clouds.  Between  the  illumined 
edge  of  a  heaped  cloud,  and  that  part  of  its  body  which 
turns  into  shadow,  there  will  generally  be  a  clear  dis- 
tance of  several  miles,  more  or  less  of  course,  according 
to  the  general  size  of  the  cloud,  but  in  such  large  masses 
as  in  Poussin  and  others  of  the  old  masters,  occupy  the 
fourth  or  fifth  of  the  visible  sky ;  the  clear  illumined 
breadth  of  vapour,  from  the  edge  to  the  shadow,  involves 
at  least  a  distance  of  five  or  six  miles.  We  are  little  apt, 
in  watching  the  changes  of  a  mountainous  range  of  cloud, 
to  reflect  that  the  masses  of  vapour  which  compose  it,  are 
huger  and  higher  than  any  mountain  range  of  the  earth ; 
and  the  distances  between  mass  and  mass  are  not  yards 
of  air  traversed  in  an  instant  by  the  flying  form,  but 
valleys  of  changing  atmosphere  leagues  over ;  that  the 
slow  motions  of  ascending  curves,  which  we  can  scarcely 
trace,  is  a  boiling  energy  of  exulting  vapour  rushing  into 
the  heaven  a  thousand  feet  in  a  minute ;  and  that  the 
toppling  angle  whose  sharp  edge  almost  escapes  notice 
in  the  multitudinous  forms  around  it,  is  a  nodding  prec- 
ipice of  storms,  3000  feet  from  base  to  summit.  It  is 
not  until  we  have  actually  compared  the  forms  of  the 


STUDIES.  S9 

sky  with  the  hill  ranges  of  the  earth,  and  seen  the  soar- 
ing Alp  overtopped  and  buried  in  one  surge  of  the  sky, 
that  we  begin  to  conceive  or  appreciate  the  colossal 
scale  of  the  phenomena  of  the  latter.  But  of  this  there 
can  be  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one  accustomed  to 
trace  the  forms  of  clouds  among  hill  ranges  —  as  it  is 
there  a  demonstrable  and  evident  fact,  that  the  space  of 
vapour  visibly  extended  over  an  ordinarily  cloudy  sky, 
is  not  less,  from  the  point  nearest  to  the  observer  to  the 
horizon,  than  tw^enty  leagues  ;  that  the  size  of  every 
mass  of  separate  form,  if  it  be  at  all  largely  divided,  is 
to  be  expressed  in  terms  of  miles ;  and  that  every  boil- 
ing heap  of  illuminated  mist  in  the  nearer  sky,  is  an 
enormous  mountain,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  feet  in 
height,  six  or  seven  miles  over  in  illuminated  surface, 
furrowed  by  a  thousand  colossal  ravines,  torn  by  local 
tempests  into  peaks  and  promontories,  and  changing  its 
features  with  the  majestic  velocity  of  the  volcano.  — 
Modern  Painters,  vol.  i.  part  ii.  sec.  iii.  chap.  iii. 

WATER. 

Of  all  inorganic  substances,  acting  in  their  own  proper 
nature,  and  Avithout  assistance  or  combination,  water  is 
the  most  wonderful.  If  we  think  of  it  as  the  source  of 
all  the  changefulness  and  be'auty  which  we  have  seen  in 
clouds ;  then  as  the  instrument  by  which  the  earth  we 
have  contemplated  was  modelled  into  symmetry,  and  its 
crags  chiselled  into  grace ;  then  as,  in  the  form  of  snow, 
it  robes  the  mountains  it  has  made,  with  that  transcend- 
ent light  which  we  could  not  have  conceived  if  we  had 


40  JOHN    EUSKIN. 

not  seen  ;  then  as  it  exists  in  the  form  of  the  torrent  —  in 
the  iris  which  spans  it,  in  the  morning  mist  which  rises 
from  it,  in  the  deep  crystalline  pools  which  mirror  its 
hanging  shore,  in  the  broad  lake  and  glancing  river  ; 
finally,  in  that  which  is  to  all  human  minds  the  best 
emblem  of  unwearied,  unconquerable  power,  the  wild, 
various,  fantastic,  tameless  unity  of  the  sea  ;  what  shall 
we  compare  to  this  mighty,  this  universal  element,  for 
glory  and  for  beauty  ?  or  how  shall  we  follow  its  eternal 
changefulness  of  feeling  ?  It  is  like  trying  to  paint  a 
soul.  .  .  . 

To  paint  the  actual  play  of  hue  on  the  reflective 
surface,  or  to  give  the  forms  and  fury  of  water  when  it 
begins  to  show  itself  —  to  give  the  flashing  and  rocket- 
like velocity  of  a  noble  cataract,  or  the  precision  and 
grace  of  the  sea  wave,  so  exquisitely  modelled,  though 
so  mockingly  transient  —  so  mountainous  in  its  form, 
yet  so  cloud-like  in  its  motion  —  with  its  variety  and 
delicacy  of  colour,  when  every  ripple  and  wreath  has 
some  peculiar  passage  of  reflection  upon  itself  alone, 
and  the  radiating  and  scintillating  sunbeams  are  mixed 
with  the  dim  hues  of  transparent  depth  and  dark  rock 
below ;  —  to  do  this  perfectly  is  beyond  the  power  of 
man  ;  to  do  it  even  partially,  has  been  granted  to  but 
one  or  two,  even  of  those  few  who  have  dared  to  attempt 
it.  .  .  . 

The  fact  is,  that  there  is  hardly  a  roadside  pond  or 
pool  which  has  not  as  much  landscape  {71  it  as  above  it. 
It  is  not  the  brown,  miidd}',  dull  thing  we  suppose  it  to 
be :  it  has  a  heart  like  ourselves,  and  in  the  bottom  of 


STUDIES.  41 

that  there  are  the  boughs  of  the  tall  trees,  and  the  blades 
of  the  shaking  grass,  and  all  manner  of  hues,  of  variable, 
pleasant  light  out  of  the  sky  ;  nay,  the  ugly  gutter,  that 
stagnates  over  the  drain  bars,  in  the  heart  of  the  foul 
city,  is  not  altogether  base ;  down  in  that,  if  you  will 
look  deep  enough,  you  may  see  the  dark,  serious  blue  of 
far  off  sky,  and  the  passing  of  pure  clouds.  It  is  at  your 
own  will  that  you  see  in  that  despised  stream,  either  the 
refuse  of  the  street,  or  the  image  of  the  sky  —  eo  it  is 
with  almost  all  other  things  that  we  unkindly  despise. 
—  Vol.  i.  part  ii.  sec.  v.  chap.  i. 

For  all  other  rivers  there  is  a  surface,  and  an  under- ' 
neath,  and  a  vaguely  displeasing  idea  of  the  bottom. 
But  the  Rhone  flows  like  one  lambent  jewel;  its  surface 
is  nowhere,  its  ethereal  self  is  everywhere,  the  iridescent 
rush  and  translucent  strength  of  it  blue  to  the  shore,  — 
and  radiant  to  the  depth.  Fifteen  feet  thick,  of  not 
flowing,  but  flying  water;  not  water,  neither, —  melted 
glacier,  rather,  one  should  call  it ;  the  force  of  the  ice  is 
with  it,  and  the  wreathing  of  the  clouds,  the  gladness  of 
the  sky,  and  the  continuance  of  Time. 

Waves  of  clear  sea  are,  indeed,  lovely  to  watch,  but 
they  are  always  coming  or  gone,  never  in  any  taken 
shape  to  be  seen  for  a  second.  But  here  was  one 
mighty  wave  that  was  always  itself,  and  every  fluted 
swirl  of  it,  constant  as  the  wreathing  of  a  shell.  No 
wasting  away  of  the  fallen  foam,  no  pause  for  gathering 
of  power,  no  helpless  ebb  of  discouraged  recoil ;  but 
alike  through  bright  day  and  lulling  night,  the  never- 


42  JOUN  BUSKIN. 

pausing  plunge,  and  never-fading  flash,  and  never-hush- 
ing whisper,  and,  v/hile  the  sun  was  up,  the  ever-answer- 
ing glow  of  unearthly  aquamarine,  ultramarine,  violet 
blue,  gentian  blue,  peacock  blue,  river-of  paradise  blue, 
glass  of  a  painted  window  melted  in  the  sun,  and  the 
witch  of  the  Alps  flinging  the  spun  tresses  of  it  forever 
from  her  snow. 

The  innocent  way,  too,  in  which  the  river  used  to 
stop  to  look  into  every  little  corner.  Great  torrents 
always  seem  angry,  and  great  rivers  too  often  sullen  ; 
but  there  is  no  anger,  no  disdain,  in  the  Rhone.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  mountain  stream  was  in  mere  bliss  at 
recovering  itself  out  of  the  lake-sleep,  and  raced  because 
it  rejoiced  in  racing,  fain  yet  to  return  and  stay.  There 
were  pieces  of  wave  that  danced  all  day  as  if  Perdita 
were  looking  on  to  learn  ;  there  were  little  streams  that 
skipped  like  lambs  and  leaped  like  chamois  ;  there  were 
pools  that  shook  the  sunshine  all  through  them,  and 
were  rippled  in  layers  of  overlaid  ripples,  like  crystal 
sand;  there  were  currents  that  twisted  the  light  into 
golden  braids,  and  inlaid  the  threads  with  turquoise 
enamel ;  there  were  strips  of  stream  that  had  certainly 
above  the  lake  been  mill-streams,  and  were  looking 
busily  for  mills  to  turn  again ;  there  were  shoots  of 
stream  that  had  once  shot  fearfully  into  the  air,  and 
now  sprang  up  again  laughing  that  they  had  only  fallen 
a  foot  or  two  ;  —  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  gay  glitter- 
ing and  eddied  lingering,  the  noble  bearing  by  of  tlie 
midmost  depth,  so  mighty,  yet  so  terrorless  and  harm- 
less, with  its  swallows  skimming  instead  of  petrels,  and 


STUDIES.  43 

the  dear  old  decrepit  town  as  safe  in  the  embracing 
sweep  of  it  as  if  it  were  set  in  a  brooch  of  sapphire. — 
PrcBterita,  vol.  ii.  chap.  v. 

MOUNTAINS. 

Mountains  are  to  the  rest  of  the  body  of  the  earth 
what  violent  muscular  action  is  to  the  body  of  man. 
The  muscles  and  tendons  of  its  anatomy  are,  in  the 
mountain,  brought  out  with  fierce  and  convulsive  energy, 
full  of  expression,  passion,  and  strength;  the  plains  and 
the  lower  hills  are  the  repose  and  the  effortless  motion 
of  the  frame,  when  its  muscles  lie  dormant  and  con- 
cealed beneath  the  lines  of  its  beauty,  yet  ruling  those 
lines  in  their  every  undulation.  This,  then,  is  the  iirst 
grand  principle  of  the  truth  of  the  earth.  The  spirit  of 
the  hills  is  action ;  that  of  the  lowlands,  repose  ;  and 
between  these  there  is  to  be  found  every  variety  of 
motion  and  of  rest ;  from  the  inactive  plain,  sleeping 
like  the  firmament,  with  cities  for  stars,  to  the  fiery 
peaks,  which,  with  heaving  bosoms  and  exulting  limbs, 
with  the  clouds  drifting  like  hair  from  their  bright  fore- 
heads, lift  up  their  Titan  hands  to  Heaven,  saying,  "  I 
live  forever ! " 

But  there  is  this  difference  between  the  action  of  the 
earth,  and  that  of  a  living  creature,  that  while  the  ex- 
erted limb  marks  its  bones  and  tendons  through  the  flesh, 
the  excited  earth  casts  off  the  flesh  altogether,  and  its 
bones  come  out  froin  beneath.  Mountains  are  the  bones 
of  the  earth,  their  highest  peaks  are  invariably  those 
parts  of  its   anatomy  which   in   the    plains    lie    buried 


44  JOHN  RUSK  IN. 

under  five  and  twenty  thousand  feet  of  solid  thickness 
of  superincumbent  soil,  and  which  spring  up  in  the 
mountain  ranges  in  vast  pyramids  or  wedges,  flinging 
their  garment  of  earth  away  from  them  on  each  side.. 
The  masses  of  the  lower  hills  are  laid  over  and  against 
their  sides,  like  the  masses  of  lateral  masonry  against 
the  skeleton  arch  of  an  unfinished  bridge,  except  that 
they  slope  up  to  and  lean  against  the  central  ridge  :  and, 
finally,  upon  the  slopes  of  these  lower  hills  are  strewed 
the  level  beds  of  sprinkled  gravel,  sand,  and  clay,  which 
form  the  extent  of  the  champaign.  Here  then  is  another 
grand  principle  of  the  truth  of  earth,  that  the  mountains 
must  come  from  under  all,  and  be  the  support  of  all; 
and  that  everything  else  must  be  laid  in  their  arms,  heap 
above  heap,  the  plains  being  the  uppermost.  Opposed 
to  this  truth  is  every  appearance  of  the  hills  being  laid 
upon  the  plains,  or  built  upon  them.  Nor  is  this  a  truth 
only  of  the  earth  on  a  large  scale,  for  every  minor  rock 
(in  position)  comes  out  from  the  soil  about  it  as  an 
island  out  of  the  sea,  lifting  the  earth  near  it  like  waves 
beating  on  its  sides. — Modern  Fainters,  vol.  i.  part  ii. 
sec.  iv.  chap.  i. 

Examine  the  nature  of  your  own  emotion  (if  you  feel 
it)  at  the  sight  of  the  xilp,  and  you  find  all  the  bright- 
ness of  that  emotion  hanging,  like  dew  on  gossamer,  on 
a  curious  web  of  subtle  fancy  and  imperfect  knowledge. 
First,  you  have  a  vague  idea  of  its  size,  coupled  with 
wonder  at  the  work  of  the  great  Builder  of  its  walls  and 
foundations,  then   an    apprehension    of   its    eternity,  a 


\) 


STUDIES.  45 

pathetic  sense  of  its  perpetualness,  and  your  own  tran- 
cientness,  as  of  the  grass  upon  its  sides  ;  then,  and  in 
this  very  sadness,  a  sense  of  strange  companionship 
witli  past  generations  in  seeing  wliat  they  saw.  They 
did  not  see  the  clouds  that  are  floating  over  your  head ; 
nor  the  cottage  wall  on  the  other  side  of  the  field ;  nor 
the  road  by  which  you  are  travelling.  But  they  saw 
that.  The  wall  of  granite  in  the  heavens  Avas  the  same 
to  them  as  to  you.  They  have  ceased  to  look  upon  it ; 
you  will  soon  cease  to  look  also,  and  the  granite  wall  will 
be  for  others.  Then,  mingled  with  these  more  solemn 
imaginations,  come  the  understandings  of  the  gifts  and 
glories  of  the  Alps,  the  fancying  forth  of  all  the  foun- 
tains that  well  from  its  rocky  walls,  and  strong  rivers 
that  are  born  out  of  its  ice,  and  of  all  the  pleasant 
valleys  that  wind  between  its  cliffs,  and  all  the  chalets 
that  gleam  among  its  clouds,  and  happy  farmsteads 
couched  upon  its  pastures ;  while  together  Avith  the 
thoughts  of  these,  rise  strange  sympathies  with  all  the 
unknown  of  human  life,  and  happiness,  and  death,  sig- 
nified by  that  narrow  white  flame  of  the  everlasting 
snow,  seen  so  far  in  the  morning  sky.  —  Vol.  iii.  part 
iv.  chap.  X. 

Inferior  hills  ordinarily  interrupt,  in  some  degree,, 
the  richness  of  the  valleys  at  their  feet ;  the  gray  downs 
of  Southern  England,  and  treeless  coteaux  of  central 
France,  and  gray '  swells  of  Scottish  moor,  whatever 
peculiar  charms  they  may  possess  in  themselves,  are  tit 
least  destitute  of  those  which  belong  to  the  woods  and 


46  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

fields  of  the  lowlands.  But  the  great  mountains  lift 
the  lowlands  07i  their  sides.  Let  the  reader  imagine, 
first,  the  appearance  of  the  most  varied  plain  of  some 
richly  cultivated  country;  let  him  imagine  it  dark  with 
graceful  woods,  and  soft  with  deepest  pastures  ;  let  him 
fill  the  space  of  it,  to  the  utmost  horizon,  with  innumer- 
able and  changeful  incidents  of  scenery  and  life;  lead- 
ing pleasant  streamlets  through  its  meadows,  strewing 
clusters  of  cottages  beside  their  banks,  tracing  sweet 
footpaths  through  its  avenues,  and  animating  its  fields 
with  happy  flocks,  and  slow  wandering  spots  of  cattle  ; 
and  when  he  has  wearied  himself  with  endless  imasriu- 
ing,  and  left  no  space  without  some  loveliness  of  its 
own,  let  him  conceive  all  this  great  plain,  with  its  infi- 
nite treasures  of  natural  beauty  and  happy  human  life, 
gathered  up  in  God's  hands  from  one  edge  of  the  horizon 
to  the  other,  like  a  woven  garment ;  and  shaken  into 
deep,  falling  folds,  as  the  robes  droop  from  a  king's 
shoulders ;  all  its  bright  rivers  leaping  into  cataracts 
along  the  hollows  of  its  fali,  and  all  its  forests  rearing 
themselves  aslant  against  its  slopes,  as  a  rider  rears  him- 
self back  when  his  horse  plunges;  and  all  its  villages 
nestling  themselves  into  the  new  windings  of  its  glens  ; 
and  all  its  pastures  thrown  into  steep  waves  of  green- 
sward, dashed  with  dew  along  the  edges  of  their  folds, 
and  sweeping  down  into  endless  slopes,  with  a  cloud 
here  and  there  lying  quietly,  half  on  the  grass,  half  in 
the  air  ;  and  he  will  have  as  yet,  in  all  this  lifted  world, 
only  the  foundation  of  one  of  the  great  Alps.  And  what- 
ever is  lovely  in  the  lowland  scenery  becomes  lovelier  in 


STUDIES.  47 

this  change  :  the  trees  which  grew  heavily  and  stiffly 
from  the  level  line  of  the  plain  assume  strange  lines  of 
strength  and  grace  as  they  bend  themselves  against  the 
mountain  side  ;  they  breathe  more  freely,  and  toss  their 
branches  more  carelessly  as  each  climbs  higher,  looking 
to  the  clear  light  above  the  topmost  leaves  of  its  brother 
tree  :  the  flowers  which  ou  the  arable  plain  fell  before 
the  plough,  now  find  out  for  themselves  unapproachable 
places,  where  year  by  year  they  gather  into  hapuier  fel- 
lowship, and  fear  no  evil ;  and  the  streams  which  in  the 
level  land  crept  in  dark  eddies  by  unwholesome  banks, 
now  move  in  showers  of  silver,  and  are  clothed  with 
rainbows  and  bring  health  and  life  wherever  the  glance 
of  their  waves  can  reach.  —  Vol.  iv.  part  v.  chap.  vii. 

VEGETATION. 

Plants  are,  indeed,  broadly  referable  to  two  great 
classes.  The  first  we  may,  perhaps,  not  inexpediently 
call  TENTED  PLANTS.  They  live  in  encampments  on  the 
ground,  as  lilies  ;  or  on  surfaces  of  rock,  or  stems  of 
other  plants,  as  lichens  and  mosses.  They  live  —  some 
for  a  year,  some  for  many  years,  some  for  myriads  of 
years ;  but,  perishing,  they  pass  as  the  tented  Arab 
passes  :  they  leave  wo  viemorials  of  themselves,  except 
the  seed,  or  bulb,  or  root,  which  is  to  perpetuate  the 
race.  , 

The  other  great  class  of  plants  we  may  perhaps  best 
call  BUILDING  PLANTS.  Thcsc  will  iiot  livc  on  the  ground, 
but  eagerly  raise  edifices  above  it.  Each  woi-ks  hard 
with  solemn  foretliought  all  its  life,     Perishing,  it  leaves 


48  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

its  work  in  the  form  which  will  be  most  useful  to  its 
successors  —  its  own  monument,  and  their  inheritance. 
These  architectural  edifices  we  call  "  Trees."  .  .  . 

To  us,  as  artists,  or  lovers  of  art,  this  is  the  first  and 
most  vital  question  concerning  a  plant :  "  Has  it  a  fixed 
form  or  a  changing  one  ?  Will  it  rise  only  to  the  height 
of  a  man  —  as  an  ear  of  corn  —  and  perish  like  a  man  ; 
or  will  it  spread  its  boughs  to  the  sea  and  branches  to 
the  river,  and  enlarge  its  circle  of  shade  in  heaven  for  a 
thousand  years  ?  " 

Tliis,  I  repeat,  is  the  first  question  I  ask  the  plant. 
And  as  it  answers,  I  range  it  on  one  side  or  the  other, 
among  those  that  rest,  or  those  that  toil :  tent-dwellers, 
who  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  ;  or  tree-builders, 
whose  days  are  as  the  days  of  a  people.  .  .  . 

Again,  in  questioning  the  true  builders  as  to  their 
modes  of  work,  I  find  that  they  also  are  divisible  into 
two  great  classes.  Without  in  the  least  wishing  the 
reader  to  accept  the  fanciful  nomenclature,  I  think  he 
may  yet  most  conveniently  remember  these  as  "Builders 
with  the  shield,"  and  "  Builders  with  the  sword." 

Builders  with  the  shield  have  expanded  leaves,  more 
or  less  resembling  shiehls,  partly  in  shape,  but  still  more 
in  office  ;  for  under  their  lifted  shadow  the  young  bud 
of  the  next  year  is  kept  from  harm.  These  are  the 
gentlest  of  the  builders,  and  live  in  pleasant  places, 
providing  food  and  shelter  for  man.  Builders  with  the 
sword,  on  tlie  contrary,  have  sharp  leaves  in  the  shape 
of  swords,  and  the  young  buds,  instead  of  being  as  nu- 
merous as  the  leaves,  crouching  each  under  a  leaf-shadov/, 


STUDIES.  49 

are  few  in  number,  and  grow  fearlessly,  each  in  the 
midst  of  a  sheaf  of  swords.  These  builders  live  in 
savage  places,  are  sternly  dark  in  colour,  and,  though 
they  give  much  help  to  man  by  their  merely  physical 
strength,  they  (with  few  exceptions)  give  him  no  food, 
and  imperfect  shelter.  Their  mode  of  building  is  ruder 
than  that  of  the  shield-builders,  and  they  in  many  ways 
resemble  the  pillar-plants  of  the  opposite  order.  We 
call  them  generally  "  Pines."  —  Vol.  v.  part  vi.  chap.  ii. 

A  sword-builder  may  be  generally  considered  as  a 
shield-builder  put  under  the  severest  military  restraint. 
The  graceful  and  thin  leaf  is  concentrated  into  a  strong, 
narrow,  pointed  rod  ;  and  the  insertion  of  these  rods  on 
the  stem  is  in  a  close  and  perfectly  timed  order.  .  .  . 
Other  trees,  tufting  crag  or  hill,  yield  to  the  form  and 
sway  of  the  ground,  clothe  it  with  soft  compliance,  are 
partly  its  subjects,  partly  its  flatterers,  partly  its  com- 
forters. But  the  pine  rises  in  serene  resistance,  self- 
contained;  nor  can  I  ever  without  awe  stay  long  under  a 
great  Alpine  cliff,  far  from  all  house  or  work  of  men, 
looking  up  to  its  companies  of  pine,  as  they  stand  on  the 
inaccessible  juts  and  perilous  ledges  of  the  enormous 
wall,  in  quiet  multitudes,  each  like  the  shadow  of  the 
one  beside  it  —  upright,  fixed,  spectral,  as  troops  of 
ghosts  standing  on  the  walls  of  Hades,  not  knowing  each 
other  —  dumb  forever.  You  cannot  reach  them,  can- 
not cry  to  them  ;  — those  trees  never  heard  human  voice  ; 
they  are  far  above  all  sound  but  of  the  winds.  No  foot 
ever  stirred  fallen  leaf  of  theirs.     All  comfortless  they 


50  JOH]!^    It  U SKIN. 

stand,  between  tlie  two  eternities  of  the  Vacancy  and  tlie 
Eock :  yet  with  such  iron  will,  that  the  rock  itself  looks 
bent  and  shattered  beside  them  —  fragile,  weak,  incon- 
sistent, compared  to  their  dark  energy  of  delicate  life, 
and  monotony  of  enchanted  pride  :  —  unnumbered,  un- 
conquerable. —  Vol.  V.  part  vi.  chap.  ix. 

Break  off  an  elm  bough,  three  feet  long,  in  full  leaf, 
and  lay  it  on  the  table  before  you,  and  try  to  draw  it, 
leaf  for  leaf.  It  is  ten  to  one  if  in  the  whole  bough  (pro- 
vided you  do  not  twist  it  about  as  you  work)  you 
find  one  form  of  a  leaf  exactly  like  another ;  perhaps  you 
will  not  even  have  one  complete.  Every  leaf  will  be 
oblique,  or  foreshortened,  or  curled,  or  crossed  by 
another,  or  shaded  by  another,  or  have  something  or 
other  the  matter  with  it ;  and  though  the  whole  bough 
will  look  graceful  and  symmetrical,  you  will  scarcely 
be  able  to  tell  how  or  why  it  does  so,  since  there  is  not 
one  line  of  it  like  another.  .  .  . 

But  if  nature  is  so  various  when  you  have  a  bough  on 
the  table  before  you,  what  must  she  be  when  she  retires 
from  you,  and  gives  you  her  whole  mass  and  multitude  ? 
The  leaves  then  at  the  extremities  become  as  fine  as 
dust,  a  mere  confusion  of  points  and  lines  between  you 
and  the  sky,  a  confusion  which  you  might  as  well  hope 
to  draw  sea-sand  particle  by  particle,  as  to  imitate  leaf 
for  leaf.  This,  as  it  comes  down  into  the  body  of  the 
tree,  gets  closer,  but  never  opaque  ;  it  is  always  trans- 
parent, with  crumbling  lights  in  it  letting  you  through 
to  the  sky  ;  then,  out  of  this,  come,  heavier  and  heavier. 


STUDIES.  51 

the  masses  of  illumined  foliage,  all  dazzling  and  inex- 
tricable, save  here  and  there  a  single  leaf  on  the  extrem- 
ities ;  then,  under  these,  you  get  deep  passages  of  broken, 
irregular  gloom,  passing  into  transparent  green-lighted, 
misty  hollows  ;  the  twisted  stems  glancing  through  them 
in  their  pale  and  entangled  infinity,  and  the  shafted  sun- 
beams, rained  from  above,  running  along  the  lustrous 
leaves  for  an  instant;  then  lost,  then  caught  again  on 
some  emerald  bank  or  knotted  root,  to  be  sent  up  again 
with  a  faint  reflex  on  the  white  under-sides  of  dim 
groups  of  drooping  foliage,  the  shadows  of  the  upper 
boughs  running  in  gray  network  down  the  glossy  stems, 
and  resting  in  quiet  checkers  updu  the  glittering  earth; 
but  all  penetrable  and  transparent,  and,  in  proportion, 
inextricable  and  incomprehensible,  except  where  across 
the  labyrinth  and  the  mystery  of  the  dazzling  light  and 
dream-like  shadow,  falls,  close  to  us,  some  solitary  spray, 
some  wreath  of  two  or  three  motionless  large  leaves,  the 
type  and  embodying  of  all  that  in  the  rest  we  feel  and 
imagine,  but  can  never  see.  —  Vol.  i.  part  ii.  sec.  vi. 
chap.  i. 

The  leaves,  as  we  shall  see  immediately,  are  the 
feeders  of  the  plant.  Their  own  orderly  habits  of  suc- 
cession must  not  interfere  witli  their  main  business  of 
finding  food.  Where  the  sun  and  air  are,  the  leaf  must 
go,  whether  it  be  out  of  order  or  not.  So,  therefore,  in 
any  group,  the  first  consideration  with  the  young  leaves 
is  much  like  that  of  young  bees,  how  to  keep  out  of 
each  other's  way,  that  every  one  may  at  once  leave  its 


52  JOUN  BUSKIX. 

neighbours  as  much  free-air  pasture  as  possible,  and 
obtain  a  relative  freedom  for  itself.  This  would  be 
a  quite  simple  matter,  and  produce  other  simply  bal- 
anced forms,  if  each  branch,  with  open  air  all  round  it, 
had  nothing  to  think  of  but  reconcilement  of  interests 
among  its  own  leaves.  But  every  branch  has  others  to 
meet  or  to  cross,  sharing  with  them,  in  various  advan- 
tage, what  shade,  or  sun,  or  rain  is  to  be  had.  Hence 
every  single  leaf-cluster  presents  the  general  aspect  of  a 
little  family,  entirely  at  unity  among  themselves,  but 
obliged  to  get  their  living  by  various  shifts,  concessions, 
and  infringements  of  the  family  rules,  in  order  not  to 
invade  the  privileges  of  other  people  in  their  neighbour- 
hood. 

And  in  the  arrangement  of  these  concessions  there  is 
an  exquisite  sensibility  among  the  leaves.  They  do  not 
grow  each  to  his  own  liking,  till  they  run  against  one 
another,  and  then  turn  back  sulkily ;  but  by  a  watchful 
instinct,  far  apart,  they  anticipate  their  companions' 
courses,  as  ships  at  sea,  and  in  every  new  unfolding  of 
their  edged  tissue,  guide  themselves  by  the  sense  of 
each  other's  remote  presence,  and  by  a  watchful  pene- 
tration of  leafy  purpose  in  the  far  future.  So  that  every 
shadow  which  one  casts  on  the  next,  and  every  glint  of 
sun  which  each  reflects  to  the  next,  and  every  touch 
whieli  in  toss  of  storm  each  receives  from  the  next,  aid 
or  arrest  the  development  of  th"ir  advancting  form,  and 
direct,  as  will  be  safest  and  best,  the  curve  of  every 
fold  and  the  current  of  every  vein. 

And  this  peculiar  character  exists  in  all  the  structures 


STUDIES.  53 

thus  developed,  that  they  are  always  visibly  the  result 
of  a  volition  on  the  part  of  the  leaf,  meeting  an  ex- 
ternal force  or  fate,  to  which  it  is  never  passively 
subjected.  Upon  it,  as  on  a  mineral  in  the  course  of 
formation,  the  great  merciless  influences  of  the  universe, 
and  the  oppressive  powers  of  minor  things  immediately 
near  it,  act  continually.  Heat  and  cold,  gravity  and  the 
other  attractions,  windy  pressure,  or  local  and  unhealthy 
restraint,  must,  in  certain  inevitable  degrees,  affect  the 
whole  of  its  life.  But  it  is  life  which  they  affect ;  —  a 
.life  of  progress  and  will,  —  not  a  merely  passive  accu- 
mulation of  substance.  This  may  be  seen  by  a  single 
glance.  The  mineral  —  suppose  an  agate  in  tlie  course 
of  formation —  shows  in  every  line  nothing  but  a  dead 
submission  to  surrounding  force.  Flowing,  or  congeal- 
ing, its  substance  is  here  repelled,  there  attracted,  unre- 
sistingly to  its  place,  and  its  languid  sinuosities  follow 
the  clefts  of  the  rock  that  contains  them,  in  servile 
deflexion  and  compulsory  cohesion,  impotently  calcu- 
lable, and  cold.  But  the  leaf,  full  of  fears  and  affections, 
shrinks  and  seeks,  as  it  obeys.  Not  thrust,  but  awed 
into  its  retiring ;  not  dragged,  but  won  to  its  advance  ; 
not  bent  aside,  as  by  a  bridle,  into  new  courses  of 
growth  :  but  persuaded  and  converted  through  tender 
continuance  of  voluntary  change. 

The  mineral  and  it  differing  thus  widely  in  separate 
being,  they  differ  no  less  in  modes  of  companionship. 
The  mineral  crystals  group  themselves  neither  in  suc- 
cession, nor  in  sympathy;  but  great  and  small  recklessly 
strive  for  place,  and  deface  or  distort  each  other  as  they 


64  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

gather  into  opponent  asperities.  The  confused  crowd 
fills  the  rock  cavity,  hanging  together  in  a  glittering, 
yet  sordid  heap,  in  which  nearly  every  crystal,  owing  to 
their  vain  contention,  is  imperfect,  or  impure.  Here  and 
there  one,  at  the  cost  and  in  defiance  of  the  rest,  rises 
into  unwarped  shape  or  unstained  clearness.  But  the 
order  of  the  leaves  is  one  of  soft  and  subdued  concession. 
Patiently  each  awaits  its  appointed  time,  accepts  its 
prepared  place,  yields  its  required  observance.  Under 
every  oppression  of  external  accident,  the  group  yet 
follows  a  law  laid  down  in  its  own  heart ;  and  all  the 
members  of  it,  whether  in  sickness  or  health,  in  strength 
or  languor,  combine  to  carry  out  this  first  and  last  heart 
law;  receiving,  and  seeming  to  desire  for  themselves  and 
for  each  other,  only  life  which  they  may  communicate, 
and  loveliness  which  they  may  reflect.  —  Vol.  v.  part  vi. 
chap.  iv. 

It  is  strange  to  think  of  the  gradually  diminished 
power  and  withdrawn  freedom  among  the  order  of  the 
leaves — from  the  sweep  of  the  chestnut  and  gadding  of 
the  vine,  down  to  the  close  shrinking  trefoil,  and  con- 
tented daisy,  pressed  on  earth ;  and,  at  last,  to  the 
leaves  that  are  not  merely  close  to  earth,  but  themselves 
a  part  of  it ;  fastened  down  to  it  by  their  sides,  here  and 
there  only  a  wrinkled  edge  rising  from  the  granite  crys- 
tals. We  have  found  beauty  in  the  tree  yielding  fruit, 
and  in  the  herb  yielding  seed.  How  of  the  herb  yield- 
ing no  seed,  the  fruitless,  flowerless  lichen  of  the  rock  ? 

Lichen,  and  mosses  (though  these  last  in  their  luxuri- 


STUDIES.  55 

ance  are  deep  and  rich  as  herbage,  yet  both  for  the  most 
part  humblest  of  the  green  things  that  live),  —  how  of 
these  ?  Meek  creatures  !  the  first  mercy  of  the  earth, 
veiling  with  hushed  softness  its  dintless  rocks;  creatures 
full  of  pity,  covering  with  strange  and  tender  honor  the 
scarred  disgrace  of  ruin,  —  laying  quiet  fingers  on  the 
trembling  stones,  to  teach  them  rest.  No  words,  that  I 
know  of,  will  say  what  these  mosses  are.  None  are  deli- 
cate enough,  none  perfect  enough,  none  rich  enough. 
How  is  one  to  tell  of  the  rounded  bosses  of  furred  and 
beaming  green,  —  the  starred  divisions  of  rubied  bloom, 
fine-filmed,  as  if  the  Rock  Spirits  could  spin  porphyry  as 
we  do  glass,  —  the  traceries  of  intricate  silver,  and  fringes 
of  amber,  lustrous,  arborescent,  burnished  through  every 
fibre  into  fitful  brightness  and  glossy  traverses  of  silken 
change,  yet  all  subdued  and  pensive,  and  framed  for 
simplest,  sweetest  offices  of  grace.  They  will  not  be 
gathered,  like  the  flowers,  for  chaplet  or  love-token ;  but 
of  these  the  wild  bird  will  make  its  nest,  and  the  wearied 
child  his  pillow. 

And,  as  the  earth's  first  mercy,  so  they  are  its  last 
gift  to  us.  When  all  other  service  is  vain,  from  plant 
and  tree,  the  soft  mosses  and  gray  lichens  take  up  their 
watch  by  the  headstone.  The  woods,  the  blossoms,  the 
gift-bearing  grasses,  have  done  their  part  for  a  time,  but 
these  do  service  forever.  Trees  for  the  builder's  yard, 
flowers  for  the  bride's  chamber,  corn  for  the  granary, 
moss  for  the  grave. 

Yet  as  in  one  sense  the  humblest,  in  another  they  are 
the  most  honored  of  the  earth-children.     Unfading,  as 


56  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

motionless,  the  worm  frets  them  not,  and  the  antumTi 
wastes  not.  Strong  in  loveliness,  they  neither  blanch  in 
heat  nor  pine  in  frost.  To  them,  slow-fingered,  constant^ 
hearted,  is  entrusted  the  weaving  of  the  dark,  eternal 
tapestries  of  the  hills  ;  to  them,  slow-pencilled,  iris-dyed 
the  tender  framing  of  their  endless  imagery.  Sharing 
the  stillness  of  the  unimpassioned  rock,  they  share  also 
its  endurance  :  and  while  the  winds  of  departing  spring 
scatter  the  white  hawthorn  blossoms  like  drifted  snow, 
and  summer  dims  on  the  parched  meadow  the  drooping 
of  its  cowslip-gold,  —  far  above,  among  the  mountains, 
the  silver  lichen-spots  rest,  star-like,  on  the  stone  ;  and 
the  gathering  orange  stain  upon  the  edge  of  yonder 
western  peak  reflects  the  sunsets  of  a  thousand  years. 
—  Vol.  v.  part  vi.  chap.  x. 


VIGNETTES.  67 


VIGNETTES. 

THE    RISING   HEIGHT. 

The  mountain  lies  in  the  morning  light,  like  a  level 
vapor ;  its  gentle  lines  of  ascent  are  scarcely  felt  by  the 
eye ;  it  rises  without  effort  or  exertion,  by  the  mighti- 
ness of  its  mass;  every  slope  is  full  of  slumber;  and  we 
know  not  how  it  has  been  exalted,  until  we  find  it  laid 
as  a  floor  for  the  walking  of  the  eastern  clouds. — 
Modern  Painters,  vol.  i.  part  ii.  sec.  iv.  chap.  iii. 

THE    SNOW-DRIFT. 

In  the  range  of  inorganic  nature,  I  doubt  if  any  ob- 
ject can  be  found  more  perfectly  beautiful  than  a  fresh, 
deep  snow-drift,  seen  under  warm  light.  Its  curves  are 
of  inconceivable  perfection  and  changefulness,  its  sur- 
face and  transparency  alike  exquisite,  its  light  and  shade 
of  inexhaustible  variety  and  inimitable  finish,  the  shadows 
sharp,  pale,  and  of  heavenly  color,  the  reflected  lights 
intense  and  multitudinous,  and  mingled  with  the  sweet 
occurrences  of  transmitted  light. — Vol.  i.  part  ii.  sec.  iv. 
chap.  ii. 

RAIN-CLOUDS    AT    DAWN. 

Often,  in  our  English  mornings,  the  rain-clouds  in  the 
dawn  form  soft  level  fields,  which  melt  imperceptibly 
into   the    blue;    or   when    of   less    extent,    gather    into 


58  JOHN  RUSK  IN. 

apparent  bars,  crossing  the  sheets  of  broader  clond 
above ;  and  all  these  bathed  throughout  in  an  un- 
speakable light  of  pure  rose-colour,  and  purple,  and 
amber,  and  blue;  not  shining,  but  misty-soft;  the  barred 
masses,  when  seen  nearer,  composed  of  clusters  or 
tresses  of  cloud,  like  floss  silk  ;  looking  as  if  each  knot 
were  a  little  swathe  or  sheaf  of  lighted  rain.  No  clouds 
form  such  skies,  none  are  so  tender,  various,  inimitable. 
—  Vol.  V,  part  vii.  chap.  iv. 

ALPIXE    ARCHITECTURE. 

The  longer  I  stayed  among  the  Alps,  and  the  more 
closely  I  examined  them,  the  more  I  was  struck  by  the 
one  broad  fact  of  their  being  a  vast  Alpine  plateau,  or 
mass  of  elevated  land.  .  .  .  And,  for  the  most  part,  the 
great  peaks  are  not  allowed  to  come  to  the  edge  of  it, 
but  remain,  like  the  keeps  of  castles,  far  withdrawn, 
surrounded,  league  beyond  league,  by  comparatively 
level  fields  of  mountain,  over  which  the  lapping  sheets 
of  glacier  writhe  and  flow,  foaming  about  the  feet  of  the 
dark  central  crests  like  the  surf  of  an  enormous  sea- 
breaker  hurled  over  a  rounded  rock,  and  islanding  some 
fragment  of  it  in  the  midst.  —  Vol.  iv.  part  v.  chap.  xiii. 

THE    MARRIAGE    OF    THE    LEAVES. 

You  will  find  that,  in  fact,  all  plants  are  composed 
of  essentially  two  parts —  the  leaf  and  root  —  one  lov- 
ing the  light,  the  other  darkness ;  one  liking  to  be  clean, 
the  other  to  be  dirty ;  one  liking  to  grow  for  the  most 
part  up,  the  other  for  the  most  part  down  ;  and  each  hav- 


VIGNETTES.  59 

ing  faculties  and  purposes  of  its  own.  But  the  pure  one, 
which  loves  the  light,  has,  above  all  things,  the  purpose 
of  being  married  to  another  leaf,  and  having  child-leaves, 
and  children's  children  of  leaves,  to  make  the  earth  fair 
forever.  And  when  the  leaves  marry,  they  put  on  wed- 
ding-robes, and  are  more  glorious  than  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory,  and  they  have  feasts  of  honey,  and  we  call  them 
"  Flowers."  —  Fors  Clavigera,  letter  v. 

DISTANT    PEAKS. 

Though  the  greater  clearness  of  the  upper  air  permits 
the  high  summits  to  be  seen  with  extraordinary  distinct- 
ness, yet  they  never  can  by  any  possibility  have  dark  or 
deep  shadows,  or  intense  dark  relief  against  a  light.  Clear 
they  may  be,  but  faint  they  must  be,  and  their  great 
and  prevailing  characteristic,  as  distinguished  from  other 
mountains,  is  want  of  apparent  solidity.  They  rise  in 
the  morning  light  rather  like  sharp  shades,  cast  up  into 
the  sky,  than  solid  earth.  Their  lights  are  pure,  roseate, 
and  cloud-like  —  their  shadows  transparent,  pale,  and 
opalescent,  and  often  indistinguishable  from  the  air 
around  them,  so  that  the  mountain-top  is  seen  in  the 
heaven  only  by  its  flakes  of  motionless  fire.  —  Modern 
Painters,  vol.  i.  part  ii.  sec.  iv.  chap.  li. 

THE    WATERFALL. 

...  A  broad  ledge  of  moss  and  turf,  leaning  in  a  for- 
midable, precipice  over  the  Arve.  An  almost  isolated 
rock  promontory,  many-colored,  rises  at  the  end  of  it. 
On  the  other  sides  it  is  bordered  by  cliffs,  from  Avhich  a 


60  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

little  cascade  falls,  literally  down  among  the  pines,  for 
it  is  so  light,  shaking  itself  into  mere  showers  of  seed 
pearl  in  the  sun,  that  the  pines  don't  know  it  from  mist, 
and  grow  through  it  without  minding.  Underneath, 
there  is  only  the  mossy  silence,  and  above,  forever,  the 
snow  of  the  nameless  Aiguille.  — Vol.  v.  part  vi.  chap.  ix. 

THE    CUMULUS. 

It  is  actually  some  two  years  since  I  last  saw  a  noble 
cumulus  cloud  under  full  light.  I  chanced  to  be  standing 
under  the  Victoria  Tower  at  Westminster,  when  the 
largest  mass  of  them  floated  past,  that  day,  from  the 
north-west ;  and  I  was  more  impressed  than  ever  yet  by 
the  awfulness  of  the  cloud-form,  and  its  unaccountable- 
ness,  in  the  present  state  of  our  knowledge.  The  Vic- 
toria Tower,  seen  against  it,  had  no  magnitude  :  it  was 
like  looking  at  Mont  Blanc  over  a  lamp-post.  The  domes 
of  cloud-snow  were  heaped  as  definitely  ;  their  broken 
flanks  were  as  gray  and  firm  as  rocks,  and  the  whole 
mountain,  of  a  compass  and  height  in  heaven  which  only 
became  more  and  more  inconceivable  as  the  eye  strove 
to  ascend  it,  was  passing  behind  the  tower  with  a  steady 
march,  whose  swiftness  must  in  reality  have  been  that 
of  a  tempest:  yet,  along  all  the  ravines  of  vapor,  preci- 
pice kept  pace  with  precipice,  and  not  one  thrust  another. 
—  The  EagWs  Nest,  vii.  sec.  30. 

THE  BREAKER  OX  THE  ROCKS. 

One  moment,  a  flint  cave :  the  next,  a  marble  pillar : 
the  next,  a  mere  white  fleece  thickening  the  thundery 
rain.  —  The  Harbors  of  England. 


VIGNETTES.  61 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THK    SOLDANELLA. 

I  have  already  noticed  the  example  of  very  pure  and 
high  typical  beauty  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  lines 
and  gradations  of  unsullied  snow  :  if,  passing  to  the 
edge  of  a  sheet  of  it,  upon  the  lower  Alps,  early  in  May, 
we  find,  as  we  are  nearly  sure  to  find,  two  or  three  little 
round  openings  pierced  in  it,  and  through  these,  emerg- 
ent, a  slender,  pensive,  fragile  flower  whose  small,  dark, 
purple-fringed  bell  hangs  down  and  shudders  over  the 
icy  cleft  that  it  has  cloven,  as  if  partly  wondering  at  its 
own  recent  grave,  and  partly  dying  of  very  fatigue  after 
its  hard-won  victory  ;  we  shall  be,  or  we  ought  to  be, 
moved  by  a  totally  different  impression  of  loveliness 
from  that  which  we  receive  among  the  dead  ice  and  the 
idle  clouds.  There  is  now  uttered  to  us  a  call  for  sjan- 
pathy,  now  offered  to  us  an  image  of  moral  purpose  and 
achievement,  v/hich,  hoAvever  unconscious  or  senseless 
the  creature  may  indeed  be  that  so  seems  to  call,  cannot 
be  heard  without  affection,  nor  contemplated  without 
worship,  by  any  of  us  whose  heart  is  rightly  tuned,  or 
whose  mind  is  clearly  and  surely  sighted.  —  Modern 
Painters,  vol.  ii.  part  iii.  cli.  xii. 


62  JO  UN  BUSKIN. 


INTEEPRETATIOXS. 

THE    EARTH- VEIL. 

What  infinite  wonderfulness  there  is  in  this  vegeta- 
tion, considered,  as  indeed  it  is,  as  the  means  by  which 
the  earth  becomes  the  companion  of  man  —  his  friend 
and  liis  teacher !  In  the  conditions  which  we  have 
traced  in  its  rocks,  there  could  only  be  seen  preparation 
for  his  existence;  — the  characters  which  enable  him  to 
live  on  it  safely,  and  to  work  with  it  easily — in  all 
these  it  has  been  inanimate  and  passive  ;  but  vegetation 
is  to  it  as  an  imperfect  soul,  given  to  meet  the  soul  of 
man.  The  earth  in  its  depths  must  remain  dead  and 
cold,  incapable  except  of  slow  crystalline  change  ;  but  at 
its  surface,  which  human  beings  look  upon  and  deal 
with,  it  ministers  to  them  through  a  veil  of  strange 
intermediate  being ;  which  breathes,  but  has  no  voice  ; 
moves,  but  cannot  leave  its  appointed  place ;  passes 
through  life  without  consciousness,  to  death  without 
bitterness  ;  wears  the  beauty  of  youth  without  its  pas- 
sion ;  and  declines  to  the  weakness  of  age,  without  its 
regret. 

And  in  this  mystery  of  intermediate  being,  entirely 
subordinate  to  us,  with  which  we  can  deal  as  Ave  choose, 
having  just  the  greater  power  as  we  have  the  less  respon- 
sibility for  our  treatment  of  the   unsuffering  creature, 


INTERPRETATIONS.  63 

most  of  the  pleasures  which  we  need  from  the  external 
world  are  gathered,  and  most  of  the  lessons  we  need 
are  written,  all  kinds  of  precious  grace  and  teaching 
being  united  in  this  link  between  the  Earth  and 
Man  :  Avonderful  in  universal  adaptation  to  his  need, 
desire,  and  discipline ;  God's  daily  preparation  of  the 
earth  for  him,  with  beautiful  means  of  life.  First,  a 
carpet  to  make  it  soft  for  him  ;  then,  a  colored  fantasy 
of  embroidery  thereon ;  then,  tall  spreading  of  foliage  to 
shade  him  from  sunheat,  and  shade  also  the  fallen  rain, 
tliat  it  may  not  dry  quickly  back  into  the  clouds,  but 
stay  to  nourish  the  springs  among  the  moss.  Stout 
wood  to  bear  this  leafage :  easily  to  be  cut,  yet  tough 
and  light,  to  make  houses  for  him,  or  instruments  (lance- 
shaft,  or  plough-handle,  according  to  his  temper)  ;  use- 
less it  had  been,  if  harder;  useless,  if  less  fibrous;  use- 
less, if  less  elastic.  Winter  comes,  and  the  shade  of 
leafage  falls  awaj',  to  let  the  sun  warm  the  earth ;  the 
strong  boughs  remain,  breaking  the  strength  of  winter 
winds.  The  seeds  which  are  to  prolong  the  race,  in- 
numerable according  to  the  need,  are  made  beautiful  and 
palatable,  varied  into  infinitude  of  appeal  to  the  fancy 
of  man,  or  provision  for  his  service  :  cold  juice  or  glow- 
ing spice,  or  balm,  or  incense,  softening  oil,  preserving 
resin,  medicine  of  styptic,  febrifuge,  or  lulling  charm  : 
and  all  these  presented  in  forms  of  endless  change. 
Fragility  or  force,  softness  and  strength,  in  all  degrees 
and  aspects ;  unerring  uprightness,  as  of  temple  pillars, 
or  undivided  wandering  of  feeble  tendrils  on  the  ground  ; 
mighty  resistances  of  rigid  arm  and  limb  to  the  storms 


64  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

of  ages,  or  wavings  to  and  fro  v/itli  faintest  pulse  of 
summer  streamlet.  Eoots  cleaving  the  strength  of  rock, 
or  binding  the  transience  of  the  sand  ;  crests  basking  in 
sunshine  of  the  desert,  or  hiding  by  dripping  spring  and 
lightless  cave ;  foliage  far  tossing  in  entangled  fields 
beneath  every  wave  of  ocean  —  clothing  with  variegated, 
everlasting  films,  the  peaks  of  the  trackless  mountains, 
or  ministering  at  cottage  doors  to  every  gentlest  passion 
and  simplest  joy  of  humanity. — Vol.  v.  part  vi.  chap.  i. 

THE    CLOUD-BALANCINGS. 

We  have  seen  that  when  the  earth  had  to  be  prepared 
for  the  habitation  of  man,  a  veil,  as  it  were,  of  inter- 
mediate being  was  spread  between  him  and  its  darkness, 
in  which  were  joined,  in  a  subdued  measure,  the  stability 
and  insensibility  of  the  earth,  and  the  passion  and  perish- 
ing of  mankind. 

But  the  heavens,  also,  had  to  be  prepared  for  his  hab- 
itation. 

Between  their  burning  light,  —  their  deep  vacuity, 
and  man,  as  between  the  earth's  gloom  of  iron  substance 
and  man,  a  veil  had  to  be  spread  of  intermediate  being ; 
—  which  should  appease  the  unendurable  glory  to  the 
level  of  human  feebleness,  and  sign  the  changeless 
motion  of  the  heavens  with  a  semblance  of  human  vicis- 
situde. 

Between  the  earth  and  man  arose  the  leaf.  Between 
the  heaven  and  man  came  the  cloud.  His  life  being 
partly  as  the  falling  leaf,  and  partly  as  the  flying  vapour. 

Has  the  reader  any  distinct  idea  of  what  clouds  are  ? 


IS  i  ER  P  RE  TA  TIONS.  65 

AVe  had  some  talk  about  them  long  ago,  and  perhaps 
thought  their  nature,  though  at  that  time  not  clear  to 
us,  would  be  easily  enough  understandable  when  we  put 
ourselves  seriously  to  make  it  out.  Shall  we  begin  with 
one  or  two  easiest  questions  ? 

That  mist  which  lies  in  the  morning  so  softly  in  the 
valley  level  and  white,  through  which  the  tops  of  the  trees 
rise  as  if  through  an  inundation  —  why  is  it  so  heavy  ? 
and  why  does  it  lie  so  low,  being  yet  so  thin  and  frail 
that  it  will  melt  away  utterly  into  splendor  of  morning 
when  the  sun  has  shone  on  it  but  a  few  moments  more  ? 
Those  colossal  pyramids,  huge  and  firm,  with  outlines  as 
of  rocks,  and  strength  to  bear  the  beating  of  the  high 
sun  full  on  their  fiery  flanks  —  why  are  thei/  so  light,  — 
their  bases  high  over  our  heads,  high  over  the  heads  of 
Alps  ?  why  will  these  melt  away,  not  as  the  sun  rises, 
but  as  he  descends,  and  leave  the  stars  of  twilight  clear, 
while  the  valley  vapour  gains  again  upon  the  earth  like  a 
shroud? 

I  know  not  if  the  reader  will  think  at  first  that  ques- 
tions like  these  are  easily  answered.  So  far  from  it,  I 
rather  believe  that  some  of  the  mysteries  of  tlie  clouds 
never  will  be  understood  by  us  at  all.  "  Kuowest  thou 
the  balancings  of  the  clouds  ?  "  Is  the  answer  ever  to 
be  one  of  pride  ?  "  The  wondrous  works  of  Him  which 
is  perfect  in  knowledge  ?  "  Is  our  knowledge  ever  to 
be  so  ?  —  Vol.  V.  part  vii.  chap.  i. 


QQ  JOHN  liUSKIJSr. 


THE    CLOUD    IN    THE    BIBLE. 

The  "  clouds "  and  "  heavens  "  are  used  as  inter- 
changeable words  in  those  Psalms  which  most  distinctly 
set  forth  the  power  of  God  :  "  He  bowed  the  heavens 
also,  and  came  down  ;  He  made  darkness  pavilions  round 
about  Him,  dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of  the  skies." 
.  .  .  And,  again,  "  His  excellency  is  over  Israel,  and  His 
strength  is  in  the  clouds."  Again  :  "  The  clouds  poured 
out  water,  the  skies  sent  out  a  sound,  the  voice  of  Thy 
thunder  was  in  the  heaven."  Again :  "  Clouds  and 
darkness  are  round  about  Him,  righteousness  and  judg- 
ment are  the  habitation  of  His  throne ;  the  heavens 
declare  His  righteousness,  and  all  the  people  see  His 
glory." 

In  all  these  passages  the  meaning  is  unmistakable,  if 
they  possess  definite  meaning  at  all.  We  are  too  apt  to 
take  them  merely  for  sublime  and  vague  imagery,  and 
therefore  gradually  to  lose  the  apprehension  of  their  life 
and  power.  The  expression,  "He  bowed  the  heavens," 
for  instance,  is,  I  suppose,  received  by  most  readers  as  a 
magnificent  hyperbole,  having  reference  to  some  peculiar 
and  fearful  manifestation  of  God's  power  to  the  writer 
of  the  Psalm  in  which  the  words  occur.  But  the  expres- 
sion either  has  plain  meaning,  or  it  has  7io  meaning. 
Understand  by  the  term  "  heavens "  the  compass  of 
infinite  space  around  the  earth,  and  the  expression 
"  bowed  the  heavens,"  however  sublime,  is  wholly 
without  meaning ;  infinite  space  cannot  be  bent  or 
bowed.     But  understand  bv  the  "  heavens  "  the  veil   of 


INTERPRETATIONS.  67 

clouds  above  tlie  earth,  and  the  expression  is  neither 
hyperbolical  nor  obscure  ;  it  is  pure,  plain,  and  accu- 
rate truth,  and  it  describes  God,  not  as  revealing  him- 
self in  any  peculiar  way  to  David,  but  doing  what  He 
is  still  doing  before  our  own  eyes  day  by  day.  By 
accepting  the  words  in  their  simple  sense,  we  are  thus 
led  to  apprehend  the  immediate  presence  of  the  Deity, 
and  His  purpose  of  manifesting  Himself  as  near  us  when- 
ever the  storm-cloud  stoops  upon  its  course;  while  by 
our-  vague  and  inaccurate  accej^tance  of  the  words,  we 
remove  the  idea  of  His  presence  far  from  us,  into  a 
region  which  we  can  neither  see  nor  know ;  and  gradu- 
ally, from  the  close  realization  of  a  living  God  who 
"  maketh  the  clouds  His  chariot,"  we  refine  and  explain 
ourselves  into  dim  and  distant  suspicion  of  an  inactive 
God,  inhabiting  inconceivable  places,  and  fading  into 
the  multitudinous  formalisms  of  the  laws  of  nature.  .  .  . 
I  would  desire,  therefore,  to  receive  God's  account  of 
His  own  creation  as  under  the  ordinary  limits  of  human 
knowledge  and  imagination  it  Avould  be  received  by  a 
simple-minded  man  ;  .  .  .  and  I  understand  the  making 
the  firmament  to  signify  that,  so  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
most  magnificent  ordinance  of  the  clouds  ;  —  the  ordi- 
nance, that  as  the  great  plain  of  waters  was  formed  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  so  also  a  plain  of  waters  should 
be  stretched  along  the  height  of  air,  and  the  face  of  the 
cloud  answer  the  face  of  the  ocean ;  and  that  this 
upper  and  heavenly  plain  should  be  of  waters,  as  it  were, 
glorified  in  their  nature,  no  longer  quenching  the  fire, 
but  now  bearing  fire   in  their  own   bosoms  ;  no  longer 


68  JOHN  RUSKm. 

murmuring  only  when  the  winds  raise  them  or  rocks 
divide,  but  answering  each  other  with  their  own  voices 
from  pole  to  pole  ;  no  longer  restrained  by  established 
shores,  and  guided  through  unchanging  channels,  but 
going  forth  at  their  pleasure,  like  the  armies  of  the 
angels,  and  choosing  their  encampments  upon  the 
heights  of  the  hills  ;  no  longer  hurried  downwards  for- 
ever, moving  but  to  fall,  nor  lost  in  lightless  accumula- 
tion of  the  abyss,  but  covering  the  east  and  west  with 
the  waving  of  their  wings,  and  robing  the  gloom  of  the 
farther  infinite  with  a  vesture  of  divers  colours,  of  which 
the  threads  are  purple  and  scarlet,  and  the  embroideries 
flame. 

This,  I  believe,  is  the  ordinance  of  the  firmament; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  midst  of  the  material 
nearness  of  these  heavens,  God  means  us  to  acknowledge 
His  own  immeaiate  presence  as  visiting,  judging,  and 
blessing  us.  "  The  earth  shook,  the  heavens  also 
dropped,  at  the  presence  of  God."  "  He  doth  set  His 
bow  in  the  cloud,*'  and  thus  renews,  in  the  sound  of  every 
drooping  swathe  of  rain,  His  promises  of  everlasting  love. 
'•'  In  them  hath  He  set  a  tabernacle  for  the  sun;"  whose 
burning  ball,  which  without  the  firmament  would  be  seen 
as  an  intolerable  and  scorching  circle  in  the  blackness  of 
vacuity,  is  by  that  firmament  surrounded  with  gorgeous 
service,  and  tempered  by  mediatorial  ministries;  by  the 
firmament  of  clouds  the  golden  pavement  is  spread  for 
His  chariot  wheels  at  morning;  by  the  firmament  of 
clouds  the  temple  is  built  for  His  presence  to  fill  with 
light  at  noon ;  by  the   firmament  of  clouds  the  purple 


IN  TERPRETA  TIONS.  69 

veil  is  closed  at  evening  round  the  sanctuary  of  His 
rest;  by  the  mists  of  the  firmanient  His  impLacable 
light  is  divided,  and  its  separated  lierceness  appeased 
into  the  soft  blue  that  fills  the  depth  of  distance  with 
its  bloom,  and  the  flush  with  which  the  mountains  burn 
as  they  drink  the  overflowing  of  tlie  day-spring.  And 
in  this  tabernacling  of  the  unendurable  sun  with  men, 
through  the  shadows  of  the  firmament,  God  would  seem 
to  set  forth  the  stooping  of  His  own  majesty  to  men, 
upon  the  throne  of  the  firmament.  As  the  Creator  of  all 
the  worlds,  and  the  Tnhabiter  of  Eternity,  we  cannot 
behold  Him;  but  as  the  Judge  of  the  earth  and  the 
Preserver  of  men,  those  heavens  are  indeed  His  dwellinsr- 
place.  "  Swear  not,  neither  by  heaven,  for  it  is  God's 
throne  ;  nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is  His  footstool."  And 
all  those  passings  to  and  fro  of  fruitful  shower  and 
grateful  shade,  and  all  those  visions  of  silver  palaces 
built  about  the  horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning  winds 
and  threatening  thunders,  and  glories  of  colored  robe  and 
cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deepen  in  our  hearts  the  accept- 
ance, and  distinctness,  and  dearness  of  the  simple  words, 
''  Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven."  — -  Vol.  iv.  part  v. 
chap.  vi. 

THK    SECRET    OF    THE    MIST. 

Mist  of  some  sort,  or  mirage,  or  confusion  of  light,  or 
of  cloud,  are  the  general  facts  ;  the  diotance  may  vary 
in  different  climates  at  which  the  effects  of  mist  begin, 
but  they  are  always  present ;  and  therefore,  in  all  prob- 
ability, it  is  meant  that  we  should  enjoy  them. 

Nor  does  it  seem  to  me  in  any  wise  difficult  to  under- 


70  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

stand  wtiy  they  should  be  thus  appointed  for  enjoyment. 
In  former  parts  of  this  Avork  we  were  able  to  trace  a 
certain  delightfulness  in  every  visible  feature  of  natural 
things  which  was  typical  of  any  great  spiritual  truth  ; 
surely,  therefore,  we  need  not  wonder  now,  that  mist 
and  all  its  phenomena  have  been  made  delightful  to  us, 
since  our  happiness  as  thinking  beings  must  depend 
upon  our  being  content  to  accept  only  partial  knowledge, 
even  in  those  matters  which  chiefly  concern  us.  If  we 
insist  upon  perfect  intelligibility  and  complete  declara- 
tion in  every  moral  subject,  we  shall  instantly  fall  into 
misery  of  unbelief.  Our  whole  happiness  and  power  of 
energetic  action  depend  upon  our  being  able  to  breathe 
and  live  in  the  cloud ;  content  to  see  it  opening  here  and 
closing  there;  rejoicing  to  catch  through  the  thinnest 
filuis  of  it,  glimpses  of  stable  and  substantial  things ; 
but  yet  perceiving  a  nobleness  even  in  the  concealment, 
and  rejoicing  that  the  kindly  veil  is  spread  where  the 
untempered  light  might  have  scorched  us,  or  the  iniinite 
clearness  wearied.  —  Vol.  iv.  part  v.  chap.  v. 

NATURAL    MYTHS  :    BIRD    AXD    SERPENT. 

We  have  two  orders  of  animals  to  take  some  note  of, 
which  will  illustrate  this  matter  very  sufliciently  for  us. 

The  orders  of  animals  are  the  serpent  and  the  bird; 
the  serpent,  in  which  the  breath,  or  spirit,  is  less  thaii 
m  any  other  creature,  and  the  earth-power  greatest:  — 
the  bird,  in  which  the  breath,  or  spirit,  is  more  full  than 
in  any  other  creature,  and  the  earth-power  least. 

We  will  take  the  bird  first.     It  is  little  more  than  a 


INTERPEETATIOXS.  71 

drift  of  the  air,  brought  into  form  by  pbimes  ;  the  air  is 
iu  all  its  quills,  it  breathes  through  its  whole  frame  and 
flesh,  and  glows  with  air  in  its  flying,  like  a  blown 
flame:  it  rests  upon  the  air,  subdues  it,  surpasses  it, 
outraces  it ;  is  the  air,  conscious  of  itself,  conquering 
itself,  ruling  itself. 

Also,  into  the  throat  of  the  bird  is  given  the  voice  of> 
the  air.  All  that  in  the  wind  itself  is  weak,  wild,  use- 
less in  sweetness,  is  knit  together  in  its  song.  As  we 
may  imagine  the  wild  form  of  the  cloud  closed  into  the 
perfect  form  of  the  bird's  wings,  so  the  wild  voice  of 
the  cloud,  into  its  perfect  and  comnjanded  voice  ;  un- 
wearied, rippling  through  the  clear  heaven  in  its  glad- 
ness, interpreting  all  intense  passion  through  the  soft 
spring  nights,  bursting  into  acclaim  and  rapture  of  choir 
at  daybreak,  or  lisping  and  twittering  among  the  boughs 
and  hedges  through  heat  of  day,  like  little  winds  that 
only  make  the  cowslip  bells  shake,  and  ruffle  the  petals 
of  the  wild  rose. 

Also,  upon  the  plumes  of  the  bird  are  put  the  colors 
of  the  air:  on  these  the  gold  of  the  cloud,  that  cannot 
be  gathered  by  any  covetousness ;  the  rubies  of  the 
clouds,  that  are  not  the  price  of  Athena,  but  are  Athena  ; 
the  vermilion  of  the  cloud-bar,  and  the  flame  of  the 
cloud'-crest,  and  the  snow  of  the  cloud  and  its  shadow, 
and  the  melted  blue  of  the  deep  Avells  of  the  sky  —  all 
these,  seized  by  the  creating  spirit,  and  woven  by  Athena 
herself  into  films  and  threads  of  plume;  with  wave  on 
Avave  following  and  fading  along  breast,  and  throat,  and 
opened  wings,  infinite  as  the  dividing  of  the  foam  and 


72  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

the  sifting  of  the  sea-sand;  —  even  the  white  down  of 
the  cloud  seeming  to  flutter  up  between  the  stronger 
j)luraes,  seen  but  too  soft  for  touch. 

And  so,  the  Spirit  of  the  Air  is  put  into,  and  upon, 
this  created  form ;  and  it  becomes,  through  twenty  cent- 
uries, the  symbol  of  divine  help,  descending,  as  the 
Fire,  to  speak,  but  as  the  Dove,  to  bless. 

Next,  in  the  serpent,  we  approach  the  source  of  a 
group  of  myths,  Avorld-wide,  founded  on  great  and 
common  human  instincts,  respecting  which  I  must  note 
one  or  two  points  which  bear  intimately  on  all  our  sub- 
ject. For  it  seems  to  me  that  the  scholars  who  are  at 
present  occupied  in  interpretation  of  human  myths 
have  most  of  them  forgotten  that  there  are  any  such 
things  as  natural  myths  ;  and  that  the  dark  sayings  of 
men  may  be  both  difficult  to  read,  and  not  always  worth 
reading  ;  but  the  dark  sayings  of  nature  will  probably 
become  clearer  for  the  looking  into,  and  will  very  certainly 
be  worth  reading.  And,  indeed,  all  guidance  to  the  right 
sense  of  the  human  and  variable  myths,  will  probably 
depend  on  our  first  getting  at  the  sense  of  the  natural 
and  invariable  ones.  The  dead  hieroglyph  may  have 
meant  this  or  that — the  living  hieroglyph  means  always 
the  same;  but  remember,  it  is  just  as  much  a  hieroglyph 
as  the  other  ;  nay,  more,  —  a  ''  sacred  or  reserved  sculp- 
ture," a  thing  with  an  inner  language.  The  serpent 
crest  of  the  king's  crown,  or  of  the  god's,  on  the  pillars 
of  Egypt,  is  a  mystery  ;  but  the  serpent  itself,  glid- 
ing past  the  pillar's  foot,  is  it  less  a  mystery  ?  Is 
there,  indeed,  no  tongue,  except  the  mute  forked  flash 


INTERPRETATIONS.  73 

from  its  lips,  in  that  running  brook  of  liorror  on  the 
ground  ? 

Why  that  horror  ?  We  all  feel  it ;  yet  how  imagina- 
tive it  is,  how  disproportionecl  to  the  real  strength  oi 
the  creature  !     There  is  more  poison  in  an  ill-kept  drain, 

—  in  a  pool  of  dish-washings  at  a  cottage  door,  than  in 
the  deadliest  asp  of  Nile.  Every  back-yard  which  you 
look  down  into  from  the  railway,  as  it  carries  you  out 
by  Vauxhall  or  Deptford,  holds  its  coiled  serpent :  all 
the  walls  of  those  ghastly  suburbs  are  enclosure  of  tank 
temples  for  serpent-worship  ;  yet  you  feel  no  horror  in 
looking  down  into  them,  as  you  would  if  you  saw  the 
livid  scales  and  lifted  heatl.  There  is  more  venom, 
mortal,  inevitable,  in  a  single  word,  sometimes,  or  in 
the  gliding  entrance  of  a  wordless  thought,  than  ever 
"  Vanti  Libia  con  sua  vena^  But  that  horror  is  of  the 
myth,  not  of  the  creature.  There  are  myriads  lower 
than  this,  and  more  loathsome,  in  the  scale  of  being ; 
the  links  between  dead  matter  and  animation  drift 
everywhere  unseen.  But  it  is  the  strength  of  the  base 
element  that  is  so  dreadful  in  the  serpent :  it  is  the  very 
omnipotence  of  the  earth.     That  rivulet  of  smooth  silver 

—  how  does  it  flow,  think  you  ?  It  literally  rows  on 
the  earth,  with  every  scale  for  an  oar ;  it  bites  the  dust 
with  the  ridges  of  its  body.  Watch  it,  when  it  moves 
slowly :  —  A  wave,  but  without  wind ;  a  current,  but 
with  no  fall!  all  the  body  moving  at  the  same  instant, 
yet  some  of  it  to  one  side,  some  to  another,  or  some  for- 
ward, and  the  rest  of  the  coil  backwards  ;  but  all  with 
the  same  calm  will  and  equal  way  —  no  contraction,  no 


74  JOHN  R  us  KIN. 

extension ;  one  soundless,  causeless  marcli  of  sequent 
rings,  and  spectral  procession  of  spotted  dust,  with  dis- 
solution in  its  fangs,  dislocation  in  its  coils.     Sta«tle  it ; 

—  the  winding  stream  will    become    a   twisted  arrow; 

—  the  wave  of  poisoned  life  will  lash  through  the 
grasses  like  a  cart  lane.  It  scarcely  breathes  with  its 
one  lung  (the  other  shrivelled  and  abortive)  ;  it  is  pass- 
ive to  the  sun  and  shade,  and  is  cold  or  hot,  like  a  stone; 
yet  "it  can  outclimb  the  monkey,  outswim  the  fish,  out- 
leap  the  zebra,  outwrestle  the  athlete,  and  crush  the 
tiger."  It  is  a  divine  hieroglyph  of  the  demoniac  power 
of  the  earth,  —  of  the  entire  earthly  nature.  As  the 
bird  is  the  clothed  power  of  the  air,  so  this  is  the  clothed 
power  of  the  dust;  as  the  bird  the  symbol  of  the  spirit 
of  life,  so  this  of  the  grasp  and  sting  of  death.  —  The 
Queen  of  the  Ah;  sees.  04-68. 

THE    MISSION    OF    NATURE. 

The  great  mechanical  impulses  of  the  age,  of  which 
most  of  us  are  so  proud,  are  a  mere  passing  fever,  half 
speculative,  half  childish.  People  will  discover  at  last 
that  royal  I'oids  to  anything  can  no  more  be  laid  in  iron 
than  they  can  in  dust ;  that  there  are,  in  fact,  no  royal 
roads  to  anywhere  worth  going  to ;  that  if  there  were,  it 
would  that  instant  cease  to  be  worth  going  to,  I  mean  so 
far  as  the  things-  to  be  obtained  are  in  any  way  esti- 
mable in  terms  of  price.  For  there  are  two  classes  of 
precious  things  in  the  world :  those  that  God  gives  us 
for  nothing  —  sun,  air,  and  life  (both  mortal  life  and 
immortal)  ;  and  the  secondarily  precious  things  which 


INTERPRETATIONS.  75 

He  gives  ns  for  a  price :  these  secondarily  precious 
things,  worldly  wine  and  milk,  can  only  be  bought  for 
definite  mone}' ;  they  never  can  be  cheapened.  No 
cheating  nor  bargaining  will  ever  get  a  single  thing  out 
of  nature's  "  establishment "  at  half-price.  Do  we  want 
to  be  strong  ?  —  we  must  work.  To  be  hungry  ?  —  we 
must  starve.  To  be  happy  ?  —  we  must  be  kind.  To 
be  wise  ?  —  we  must  look  and  think.  No  changing  of 
place  at  a  hundred  miles  an  hour,  nor  making  of  stuffs 
a  thousand  yards  a  minute,  will  make  us  one  whit 
stronger,  happier,  or  wiser.  There  was  always  more  in 
the  world  than  men  could  see,  walked  they  ever  so 
slowly  ;  they  will  see  it  no  better  for  going  fast.  And 
they  will  at  last,  and  soon,  too,  find  out  that  their 
grand  inventions  for  conquering  (as  they  think)  space 
and  time  do  in  reality  conquer  nothing ;  for  space 
and  time  are,  in  their  own  esi^ence,  unconquerable,  and 
besides  did  not  want  any  sort  of  conquering ;  they 
wanted  using.  A  fool  always  wants  to  shorten  space 
and  time :  a  wise  man  wants  to  lengthen  both.  A  fool 
wants  to  kill  space  and  kill  time :  a  wise  man,  first  to 
gain  them,  then  to  animate  them.  Your  railroad,  Avhen 
you  come  to  understand  it,  is  only  a  device  for  making 
the  world  smaller :  and  as  for  being  able  to  talk  from 
place  to  place,  that  is,  indeed,  well  and  convenient ;  but 
suppose  you  have,  originally,  nothing  to  say.  We  shall 
be  obliged  at  last  to  confess,  what  we  should  long 
ago  have  known,  that  the  really  precious  things  are 
thought  and  sight,  not  pace.  It  does  a  bullet  no  good 
to  go  fast;    and  a  man,  if  he  be  truly  a  man,  no  harm 


76  JOUN  BUSKIN. 

to  go  slow ;    for  his  glory  is  not  at  all  in  going,  but  in 
being.  .  .  . 

And  I  am  Utopian  and  enthusiastic  enough  to  believe, 
that  the  time  will  come  when  the  world  will  discover 
this.  It  has  now  made  its  experiments  in  every  possible 
direction  but  the  right  one  ;  and  it  seems  that  it  must,  at 
last,  try  the  right  one,  in  a  mathematical  necessity.  It 
has  tried  fighting,  and  preaching,  and  fasting,  buying 
and  selling,  pomp  and  parsimony,  pride  and  humiliation, 
—  every  possible  manner  of  existence  in  which  it  could 
conjecture  there  was  any  happiness  or  dignity ;  and  all 
the  while,  as  it  bought,  sold,  and  fought,  and  fasted,  and 
wearied  itself  with  policies,  and  ambitions,  and  self- 
denials,  God  had  placed  its  real  happiness  in  the  keeping 
of  the  little  mosses  of  the  wayside,  and  of  the  clouds  of 
the  firmament.  Now  and  then  a  weary  king,  or  a  tor- 
mented slave,  found  out  where  the  true  kingdoms  of  the 
world  were,  and  possessed  himself,  in  a  furrow  or  two 
of  garden  ground,  of  a  truly  infinite  dominion.  But  the 
world  would  not  believe  their  report,  and  went  on  tram- 
pling down  the  mosses,  and  forgetting  the  clouds,  and 
seeking  happiness  in  its  own  way,  until,  at  last,  blunder- 
ing and  late,  came  natural  science;  and  in  natural  science 
not  only  the  observation  of  things,  but  the  finding  out 
of  new  uses  for  them.  Of  course  the  world,  having  a 
choice  left  to  it,  went  wrong,  as  usual,  and  thought  that 
these  mere  materia?  uses  were  to  be  the  sources  of  its 
happiness.  It  got  the  clouds  packed  into  iron  cylinders, 
and  made  it  carry  its  wise  self  at  their  own  cloud 
pace.     It  got  weavable  fibres   out  of   the   mosses,   and 


7.Y  T EBP  RET  A  TIONS.  7  7 

made  clothes  for  itself,  cheap  and  fine,  —  here  was  hap- 
piness at  last.  To  go  as  fast  as  the  clouds,  and  manufac- 
ture everything  out  of  anything,  —  here  was  paradise, 
indeed ! 

And  now,  when,  in  a  little  while,  it  is  iinparadised 
again,  if  there  were  any  other  mistake  that  the  Avorld 
could  make,  it  would  of  course  make  it.  But  I  see  not 
that  there  is  any  other ;  and,  standing  fairly  at  its  wits' 
ends,  having  found  that  going  fast,  when  it  is  used  to 
it,  is  no  more  paradisaical  than  going  slow ;  and  that  all 
the  prints  and  cottons  in  Manchester  cannot  make  it 
comfortable  in  its  mind,  I  do  verily  believe  it  will  come, 
finally,  to  understand  that  God  paints  the  clouds  and 
shapes  the  moss-fibres,  that  men  may  be  happy  in  seeing 
Him  at  His  work,  and  that  in  resting  quietly  beside 
Him,  and  watching  His  working,  and  —  according  to  the 
power  He  has  communicated  to  ourselves,  and  the  guid- 
ance He  grants,  —  in  carrying  out  His  purposes  of  peace 
and  charity  among  all  His  creatures,  are  the  only  real 
happinesses  that  ever  were,  or  ever  will  be,  possible  to 
mankind.  —  Modern  Painters,  vol.  iii.  part  iv.  ch.  xvii. 

THE    LAW    OF    HELP. 

Perhaps  the  best,  though  the  most  familiar  example 
Ave  could  take  of  the  natui-e  and  power  of  consistence, 
Avill  be  that  of  the  possible  changes  in  the  dust  we 
tread  on. 

Exclusive  of  animal  decay,  Ave  can  hardly  arrive  at  a 
more  absolute  type  of  impurity  than  the  mud  or  sliiue 
of  a  damp,  overtrodden  path  in  the  outskirts  of  a  manu- 


78  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

facturing  town.  I  do  not  say  mud  of  the  road,  because 
that  is  mixed  with  animal  refuse  ;  but  take  merely  an 
ounce  or  two  of  the  blackest  slime  of  a  beaten  footpath 
on  a  rainy  day,  near  a  large  manufacturing  town. 

That  slime  we  shall  find  in  most  cases  composed  of 
clay  (or  brick-dust,  which  is  burnt  clay)  mixed  with  soot, 
a  little  sand,  and  water.  All  these  elements  are  at  help- 
less war  with  each  other,  and  destroy  reciprocally  each 
other's  nature  and  power,  competing  and  fighting  for 
place  at  every  tread  of  your  foot ;  —  sand  squeezing  out 
clay,  and  clay  squeezing  out  water,  and  soot  meddling 
everywhere  and  defiling  the  whole.  Let  us  suppose  that 
this  ounce  of  mud  is  left  in  perfect  rest,  and  that  its 
elements  gather  together,  like  to  like,  so  that  their  atoms 
may  get  into  the  closest  relations  possible. 

Let  the  clay  begin.  Eidding  itself  of  all  foreign  sub- 
stance, it  gradually  becomes  a  white  earth,  already  very 
beautiful ;  and  fit,  with  help  of  congealing  fire,  to  be 
made  into  finest  porcelain,  and  painted  on,  and  be  kept 
in  kings'  palaces.  But  such  artificial  consistence  is  not 
its  best.  Leave  it  still  quiet  to  follow  its  own  instinct 
of  unity,  and  it  becomes  not  only  white,  but  clear ;  not 
only  clear,  but  hard  ;  not  only  clear  and  hard,  but  so  set 
that  it  can  deal  with  light  in  a  wonderful  way,  and 
gather  out  of  it  the  loveliest  blue  rays  only,  refusing  the 
rest.     We  call  it  then  a  sapphire. 

Such  being  the  consummation  of  the  clay,  we  give 
similar  permission  of  quiet  to  the  sand.  It  also  becomes, 
first,  a  wliite  earth,  then  proceeds  to  grow  clear  and 
hard,  and  at  last  arranges  itself  in  mysterious,  infinitely 


INTERPRET  ATIONS.  79 

fine,  parallel  lines,  whicli  have  the  power  of  reflecting 
not  merely  the  blue  rays,  but  the  blue,  green,  purple, 
and  red  rays  in  the  greatest  beauty  in  which  they  can 
be  seen  through  any  fired  material  whatsoever.  We 
call  it  then  an  opal. 

In  next  order,  the  soot  sets  to  work  ;  it  cannot  make 
itself  white  at  first,  but,  instead  of  being  discouraged, 
tries  harder  and  harder,  and  comes  out  clear  at  last,  and 
the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  ;  and  for  the  blackness 
that  it  had,  obtains  in  exchange  the  power  of  reflecting 
all  the  rays  of  the  sun  at  once  in  the  vividest  blaze  that 
any  solid  thing  can  shoot.     We  call  it. then  a  diamond. 

Last  of  all  the  water  purifies  or  unites  itself,  contented 
enough  if  it  only  reach  the  form  of  a  dew-drop ;  but  if 
we  insist  on  its  proceeding  to  a  more  perfect  consistence, 
it  crystallizes  into  the  shape  of  a  star. 

And  for  the  ounce  of  slime  which  we  had  by  political 
economy  of  competition,  we  have  by  political  economy 
of  co-operation,  a  sapphire,  an  opal,  and  a  diamond,  set 
in  the  midst  of  a  star  of  snow.  —  Vol.  v.  pt.  xiv.  ch.  i. 

LIVING    NATURE. 

.  .  .  This  force,  now  properly  called  life,  or  breathing, 
or  spirit,  is  continually  creating  its  own  shells  of  defi- 
nite shape  out  of  the  wreck  round  it :  and  this  is  wdiat  I 
meant  by  saying  in  the  "Ethics  of  the  Dust,"  "You 
may  always  stand  by  Form  against  Force."  For  the 
mere  force  of  junction  is  not  spirit ;  but  the  power  that 
catches  out  of  chaos  charcoal,  water,  lime,  or  what  not, 
and  fastens  them  down  into  a  given  form,  is  properly 


80  JOHN  RUSEIN. 

callod  "spirit; "  and  we  shall  not  diminish  but  strengthen 
our  conception  of  this  creative  energy  by  recognizing  its 
presence  in  lower  states  of  matter  than  our  own  ;  such 
recognition  being  enforced  upon  us  by  a  delight  we  in- 
stinctively receive  from  all  the  forms  of  matter  which 
manifest  it ;  and  yet  more,  by  the  glorifying  of  those 
forms,  in  the  parts  of  them  that  are  most  animated, 
with  the  colours  that  are  pleasantest  to  our  senses.  The 
most  familiar  instance  of  this  is  the  best,  and  also  the 
most  wonderful,  the  blossoming  of  plants. 

The  Spirit  in  the  plant,  —  that  is  to  say,  its  power  of 
gathering  dead  matter  out  of  the  Avreck  round  it,  and 
shaping  it  into  its  own  chosen  shape,  —  is,  of  course, 
strongest  at  the  moment  of  its  flowering,  for  it  then  not 
only  gathers,  but  forms,  with  the  greatest  energy. 

And  where  this  Life  is  in  it  at  full  power,  its  form 
becomes  invested  with  aspects  that  are  chiefly  delightful 
to  our  own  human  passions  ;  namely,  first,  with  the 
loveliest  outlines  of  shape ;  and,  secondly,  with  the 
most  brilliant  phases  of  the  primary  colours,  blue,  yellow, 
and  red,  or  white,  the  unison  of  all ;  and,  to  make  it  all 
more  strange,  this  time  of  peculiar  and  perfect  glory  is 
associated  with  relations  of  the  plants  or  blossoms  to 
each  other,  correspondent  to  the  joy  of  love  in  human 
creatures,  and  having  the  same  object  in  the  continuance 
of  the  race.  Only,  with  respect  to  plants,  as  animals, 
we  are  wrong  in  speaking  as  if  the  object  of  this  strong 
life  were  only  the  bequeathing  of  itself.  The  flower  is 
the  end  or  proper  object  of  the  seed,  not  the  seed  of  the 
flower.     The  reason  for  seeds  is  that  flowers  may  be  ; 


INTElirUETA  TIONS.  81 

not  the  reason  of  flowers  that  seeds  may  be.     The  flower 

itself  is  the  creature  which  the  spirit  makes ;  only,  in 

■onnection  with    its    perfectuess,  is   placed  the  giving 

rth  to  its  successor.  ... 

The  main  fact  then  about  a  flower  is  that  it  is  the 

irt  of  the  plant's  form  developed  at  the  moment  of  its 

itensest  life :  and  this  inner  rapture  is  usually  marked 
eternally  for  us  by  the  flush  of  one  or  more  of  the 
primary  colours. 

In  all  cases,  the  presence  of  the  strongest  life  is 
asserted  by  characters,  in  which  the  human  sight  takes 
pleasure,  and  which  seem  prepared  with  distinct  refer- 
ence to  us,  or  rather,  bear,  in  being  delightful,  evidence 
of  having  been  produced  by  the  power  of  the  same 
spirit  as  our  own. 

And  we  are  led  to  feel  this  still  more  strongly  because 
all  the  distinctions  of  species,  both  in  plants  and 
animals,  appear  to  have  similar  connection  with  human 
character.  Whatever  the  origin  of  species  may  be,  or 
however  these  species,  once  formed,  may  be  influenced 
by  external  accident,  the  groups  into  which  birth  or 
accident  reduces  them  have  distinct  relation  to  the  spirit 
of  man.  .  .  . 

It  is  perfectly  possible,  and  ultimately  conceivable, 
that  the  crocodile  and  the  lamb  may  have  descended 
from  the  same  ancestral  atom  of  protoplasm ;  and  that 
the  physical  laws  of  the  operation  of  calcareous  slime 
and  of  meadow  grass  on  that  protoplasm  may  in  time 
have  developed  the  opposite  natures  and  aspects  of  the 
living  frames  ;  but  the  practically  important  fact  for  us 


82  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

is  the  existence  of  a  power  which  creates  that  calcare- 
ous earth  itself ;  .  .  .  and  that  the  calcareous  earth, 
soft,  shall  beget  crocodiles,  and,  dry  and  hard,  sheep ; 
and  that  the  aspects  and  qualities  of  these  two  products 
shall  be,  the  one  repellent  to  the  spirit  of  man,  the 
other  attractive  to  it,  in  a  quite  inevitable  way;  repre- 
senting to  him  states  of  moral  evil  and  good ;  and 
becoming  myths  to  him  of  destruction  or  redemption, 
and,  in  the  most  literal  sense,  "  words  "  of  God. 

And  the  force  of  these  facts  cannot  be  escaped  from 
by  the  thought  that  there  are  species  innumerable, 
passing  into  each  other  by  regular  gradations,  out  of 
which  we  choose  what  we  most  love  or  dread,  and  say 
they  were  indeed  prepared  for  us.  .  .  . 

Observe  again  and  again,  with  respect  to  all  these 
divisions  and  powers  of  plants  ;  it  does  not  matter  in 
the  least  by  what  concurrences  of  circumstance  or 
necessity  they  may  gradually  have  been  developed :  the 
concurrence  of  circumstance  is  itself  the  supreme  and 
inexplicable  fact.  We  always  come  at  last  to  a  forma- 
tive cause,  which  directs  the  circumstance,  and  mode  of 
meeting  it.  If  you  ask  an  ordinary  botanist  the  reason 
of  the  form  of  a  leaf,  he  will  tell  you  it  is  a  "dev^eloped 
tubercle,"  and  that  its  ultimate  form  "is  owing  to  the 
directions  of  its  vascular  threads."  But  what  directs 
its  vascular  threads  ?  "  They  are  seeking  for  some- 
thing they  want,"  he  Avill  probably  answer.  What 
made  them  want  that  ?  What  luade  them  seek  for  it 
thus?  .  .  . 

There  is  no  answer.     But  the  sum  of  it  all  is,  that 


INTEU  PR  ETA  TIONS.  83 

over  the  entire  surface  of  the  earth  and  its  waters,  as 
influenced  by  the  power  of  tlie  air  under  solar  lights, 
there  is  developed  a  series  of  changing  forms,  in  clouds, 
plants,  and  animals,  all  of  which  have  reference  in  their 
action,  or  nature,  to  the  human  intelligence  that  per- 
ceives them  ;  and  on  which,  in  their  aspects  of  horror  or 
beauty,  and  their  qualities  of  good  and  evil,  there  is 
engraved  a  series  of  myths,  or  words  of  the  forming 
power,  which,  according  to  the  true  passion  and  energy 
of  the  human  race,  they  have  been  enabled  to  read  into 
religion.  And  this  forming  power  has  been  by  all 
nations  partly  confused  with  the  breath  or  air  through 
which  it  acts,  and  partly  understood  as  a  creative 
wisdom,  proceeding  from  the  supreme  Deity  ;  but  enter- 
ing iiito  and  inspiring  all  intelligences  that  work  in 
harmony  with  Him.  And  whatever  intellectual  results 
may  be  in  modern  days  obtained,  by  regarding  this 
effluence  only  as  a  motion  of  vibration,  every  forma- 
tive human  act  hitherto,  and  the  best  states  of  human 
happiness  and  order,  have  depended  on  the  apprehension 
of  its  mystery  (which  is  certain),  and  of  its  personality 
(which  is  probable).  —  The  Queen  of  the  Air,  sees.  o9-G3, 
88-89. 

You  may  at  least  earnestly  believe,  that  the  presence 
of  the  spirit  which  cuhninates  in  your  own  life,  shows 
itself  in  dawning,  wherever  the  dust  of  the  earth  begins 
to  assume  any  orderly  and  lovely  state.  You  will  find  it 
impossible  to  separate  this  idea  of  gradated  manifesta- 
tion from  that  of  the  vital  power.     Things  are  not  either 


84  JOHN  nusKiy. 

wholly  alive,  or  wholly  dead.  They  are  less  or  more 
alive.  Take  the  nearest,  most  easily  examined  instance 
—  the  life  of  a  flower.  Notice  what  a  different  degree 
and  kind  of  life  there  is  in  the  calyx  and  the  corolla.  The 
calyx  is  nothing  but  the  swaddling  clothes  of  the  flower ; 
the  child-blossom  is  bound  up  in  it,  hand  and  foot; 
guarded  in  it,  restrained  by  it,  till  the  time  of  birth. 
The  shell  is  hardly  more  subordinate  to  the  germ  in  the 
egg,  than  the  calyx  to  the  blossom.  It  bursts  at  last ; 
but  it  never  lives  as  the  corolla  does.  It  may  fall  at  the 
moment  its  task  is  fulfilled,  as  in  the  poppy  ;  or  wither 
gradually,  as  in  the  buttercup  ;  or  persist  in  a  ligneous 
apath3^  after  the  flower  is  dead,  as  in  the  rose ;  or 
harmonize  itself  so  as  to  share  in  the  aspect  of  the  real 
flower,  as  in  the  lily ;  but  it  never  shares  in  the  corolla's 
bright  passion  of  life.  And  the  gradations  which  thus 
exist  between  the  different  members  of  organic  creat- 
ures, exist  no  less  between  the  different  ranges  of 
organism.  We  know  no  higher  or  more  energetic  life 
than  our  own  ;  but  there  seems  to  me  this  great  good  in 
the  idea  of  gradation  of  life  —  it  admits  the  idea  of  a 
life  above  us,  in  other  creatures,  as  much  nobler  than 
ours,  as  ours  is  nobler  than  that  of  the  dust. 


RUSKIN   THE   CRITIC   OF  ART. 


"  All  true  Art  is  praise.  .  .  .  Fix  tlien  in  your  mind  as  thfs 
guiding  principle  of  all  right  practical  labor,  and  source  of  all  health- 
ful life-energy,  —  that  your  art  is  to  he  tlie  praise  of  something  that 
j-ou  love.  It  may  be  only  the  praise  of  a  shell  or  a  stone  ;  it  may  be 
the  praise  of  a  hero;  it  may  be  the  praise  of  God;  your  rank  as  a 
living  creature  is  determined  by  the  height  and  breadth  of  your  love; 
but,  be  you  small  or  great,  what  healthy  art  is  possible  to  you  must 
be  the  exi.ression  of  your  true  delight  in  a  real  thing,  better  than  the 
art." — The  Law^  of  Fesule,       j 

PRELUDE. 

These  are  the  words  with  which  Mr.  Riiskin  introduces 
his  book  of  guidance  to  the  practice  and  principles  of  Art; 
I  well  might  they  serve  as  motto  to  all  those  portions  of  his 
Vwritings  which  treat  of  the  beautj^  of  the  world  as  reproduced 
through  human  power.x  To  him,  the  soul  of  art-force  is  Love 
and  Obedience.  Elsewhere  he  defines  the  artist:  "An  artist 
is  a  person  who  has  submitted  in  his  work  to  a  law  which  it 
was  painful  to  obey,  that  he  may  bestow  by  his  work  a 
delight  which  it  is  gracious  to  bestow.'"  Thus  he  uplifts 
Technique  itself  into  the  sphere  of  the  moral  suggestion.  To 
this  method  of  spiritual  interpretation  he  has  from  the  first 
consistently  adhered.  In  his  earlier  Ijooks,  he  formulates  an 
aesthetic  philosophy  which  rests  entirely  upon  the  principles 
of  ethics  ;  in  his  later,  he  proclauns  a  national  morality  as  the 
necessary  condition  of  art. 

By  this  adoption  of  an    ethical   st:nul;ii-d,    Ruskin    perma- 


86  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

nently  separates  himself  fi'om  a  large,  perhaps  the  largest, 
class  of  art-eritlcs  and  assthetie  philosophers.  The  school 
which  holds  as  its  watchword,  "Art  for  art's  sake,"  conceives 
the  nature  of  the  subject  and  the  religious  spirit  of  the  artist 
to  be  matter  of  indifference.  To  this  school,  the  "  morale  "  is 
antirely  subordinate  to  brilliance,  force,  execution ;  or  is  at 
best  valued  only  as  an  emotional  stimulus.  Men  of  this  school 
inevitably  stigmatize  Mr.  Kuskin's  interpretation  of  art  as 
sheer  sentimentality.  They  recognize  always  reverently  the 
great  work  he  has  done  in  detail ;  but  they  consider  the 
general  trend  of  that  work  to  be  vitiated  by  a  false  method. 
He  appears  to  them  an  outsider,  —  preacher,  not  critic,  at 
heart,  —  endeavoring  to  apjily  to  art  a  principle  which  has  no 
l^lace  there.  Ruskin,  although,  as  will  be  seen  even  from  the 
following  selections,  he  does  not  imdervalue  technical  quali- 
ties, has,  indeed,  little  in  common  with  these  o-entlemen.  In 
compensation,  ho^^•ever,  there  is  scarcely  any  other  limit  to 
the  breadth  of  his  artistic  sympathies.  His  earliest  work  was 
written  to  defend  modern  painters,  yet  never  had  the  artists  of 
the  past  been  interpreted  to  the  English  public  with  so  loving  an 
enthusiasm.  He  was  himself  ascetically  religious  in  instinct, 
yet  he  has  revealed,  once  and  forever,  the  power  of  the 
great  secular  painters  of  Venice.  Devotion  to  the  Gothic  as 
opposed  to  the  Classic  spirit  was  the  central  theme  of  the  work 
of  his  youth;  but  in  later  life  he  has  pondered  with  pi-ofound 
insight  over  the  thought  of  Greece,  and  has  made  manifest 
to  us  new  dej^ths  of  meaning  in  her  art  and  her  mythology. 
It  would  be  hard  to  name  a  school  of  worthily  accredited  art 
which  Mr.  Ruskin  does  not  love,  and  which  he  has  not  caused 
us  to  love  with  a  new  intelligence. 


THE  GROUNDS   OF  ART.  87 


THE   GROUNDS   OF   AET. 

■  Here  let  me  finally  and  firmly  enunciate  the  great 
principle  to  wliicli  all  that  has  hitherto  been  stated  is 
subservient :  —  that  art  is  valuable  or  otherwise,  only  as  it 
expresses  the  personality,  activity,  and  living  perception 
of  a  good  and  great  human  soul ;  that  it  may  express 
and  contain  this  with  little  help  from  execution,  and  less 
from  science  ;  and  that  if  it  have  not  this,  if  it  show  not 
the  vigor,  perception,  and  invention  of  a  mighty  human 
spirit,  it  is  worthless.  Worthless,  I  jnean,  as  art ;  it  may 
be  precious  in  some  other  Avay,  but,  as  art,  it  is  nugatory. 
Once  let  this  be  well  understood  among  us,  and  magnifi- 
cent consequences  will  soon  follow.  .  .  .  By  work  of  the 
soul,  I  mean  the  reader  always  to  understand  the  Avork 
of  the  entire  immortal  creature,  proceeding  from  a 
quick,  perceptive,  and  eager  heart  perfected  by  the  intel- 
lect, and  finally  dealt  with  by  the  hands,  under  the  direct 
guidance  of  these  higher  powers.  ... 

Whatever  may  be  the  means,  or  whatever  the  more 
immediate  end  of  any  kind  of  art,  all  of  it  that  is 
good  agrees  in  this,  that  it  is  the  expression  of  one  soul 
talking  to  another,  and  is  precious  according  to  the 
greatness  of  the  soul  that  utters  it.  And  consider  what 
mighty  consequences  follow  from  our  acceptance  of  this 
truth !  what  a  key  we  have  herein  given  us  for  the 
interpretation  of  the   art  of  all  time  !     For,  as  long  as 


88  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

^xe  held  art  to  consist  in  any  high  manual  skill,  or 
successful  imitation  of  natural  objects,  or  any  scientific 
and  legalized  manner  of  performance  whatever,  it  was 
necessary  for  us  to  limit  our  admiration  to  narrow 
periods  and  to  few  men.  .  .  . 

But  let  us  once  comprehend  the  holier  nature  of  the  art 
of  man,  and  begin  to  look  for  the  meaning  of  the  spirit, 
however  syllabled,  and  the  scene  is  changed;  and  we 
are  changed  also.  Those  small  and  dexterous  creatures 
whom  we  once  Avorshipped,  those  fur-capped  divinities 
with  sceptres  of  camel's  hair,  peering  and  poring  in 
their  one-windowed  chambers  over  the  minute  precious- 
ness  of  the  labored  canvas;  how  are  they  swept  away 
and  crushed  into  unnotieeable  darkness  !  And  in  their 
stead,  as  the  walls  of  the  dismal  rooms  that  enclosed 
them  and  us  are  struck  by  the  four  wdnds  of  Heaven, 
and  rent  away,  and  as  the  world  opens  to  our  sight,  lo  ! 
far  back  into  all  the  depths  of  time,  and  forth  from  all 
the  fields  that  have  been  sown  with  human  life,  how 
the  harvest  of  the  dragon's  teeth  is  springing  !  how  the 
companies  of  the  gods  are  ascending  out  of  the  earth  ! 
The  dark  stones  that  have  so  long  been  the  sepulchres 
of  the  thoughts  of  nations,  and  the  forgotten  ruins 
wherein  their  faith  lay  charnelled,  give  up  the  dead 
that  were  in  them  ;  and  beneath  the  Egyptian  ranks  of 
sultry  and  silent  rock,  and  amJdst  the  dim  golden  lights 
of  the  Byzantine  dome,  and  out  of  the  confused  and 
cold  shadows  of  the  Northern  cloister,  behold,  the 
multitudinous  souls  come  forth  with  singing,  gazing  on 
us  with  the  soft  eyes  of  newly  comprehended  sympathy, 


THE  GUOUynS   OF  ART.  89 

and  stretching  their  white  arms  to  iis  across  the  grave, 
in  the  solemn  gladness  of  everlasting  brotherhood.  — • 
Stones  of  Venice,  vol.  iii.,  chap.  iv. 

Wherever  art  is  practised  for  its  OAvn  sake,  and  the 
delight  of  the  Avorkman  is  in  what  he  does  and  produces, 
instead  of  in  what  he  interprets  or  exJiihits,  —  there  art 
has  an  influence  of  the  most  fatal  kind  on  brain  and  heart, 
and  it  issues,  if  long  so  pursued,  in  the  destruction  both 
of  intellectnal  power  and  moral  prineipJe  ;  whereas  art, 
devoted  humbly  and  self-forgetfully  to  the  clear  state- 
ment and  record  of  the  facts  of  the  universe,  is  always 
helpful  and  beneficent  to  mankind,  full  of  comfort, 
strength,  and  salvation. 

Now,  when  you  were  once  well  assured  of  this,  you 
might  logically  infer  another  thing;  namely,  that  Avhen 
Art  was  occupied  in  the  function  in  Avhich  she  was 
serviceable,  she  would  herself  be  strengthened  by  the 
service ;  and  when  she  was  doing  what  Providence  with- 
out doubt  intended  her  to  do,  she  would  gain  in  vitality 
and  dignity  just  as  she  advanced  in  usefulness.  On  the 
other  hand,  you  might  gather  that  when  her  agency  was 
distorted  to  the  deception  or  degradation  of  mankind,  she 
would  herself  be  equally  misled  and  degraded  —  that  she 
would  be  checked  in  advance,  or  precipitated  in  decline. 

And  this  is  the  truth  also  ;  and  holding  this  clew,  you 
will  easily  and  justly  interpret  the  phenomena  of  his- 
tory. So  long  as  Art  is  steady  in  the  contemplation 
and  exhibition  of  natural  facts,  so  long  she  herself 
lives  and  grows;   and  in  her  own  life  and  growth  partly 


90  JOHN  EUSEIN. 

implies,  partly  secures,  that  of  the  nation  in  the  midst 
of  which  she  is  practised.  But  a  time  has  always 
hitherto  come,  in  which,  having  thus  reached  a  singular 
perfection,  she  begins  to  contemplate  that  perfection, 
and  to  imitate  it,  and  deduce  rules  and  forms  from  it ; 
and  thus  to  forget  her  duty  and  ministry  as  the  inter- 
preter and  discoverer  of  Truth.  And  in  the  very 
instant  Avhen  this  diversion  of  her  purpose  and  forget- 
fulness  of  her  function  take  place  —  forgetfulness  gener- 
ally coincident  with  her  apparent  perfection  —  in  that 
instant,  I  say,  begins  her  actual  catastrophe ;  and  by 
her  own  fall  —  so  far  as  she  has  influence  —  she 
accelerates  the  ruin  of  the  nation  by  which  she  is 
practised.  .  .  . 

But  I  will  ask  your  patience  with  me  while  I  try  to 
illustrate,  in  some  farther  particulars,  the  dependence  of 
the  healthy  state  and  power  of  art  itself  upon  the  exer- 
cise of  its  appointed  function  in  the  interpretation  of 
fact. 

You  observe  that  I  always  say  interpretation,  never 
iiii'ddtlon.  My  reason  for  doing  so  is,  first,  that  good 
■art  rarely  imitates ;  it  usually  only  describes  or  ex- 
plains. But  my  second  and  chief  reason  is  that  good 
art  always  consists  of  two  things.  First,  the  observa- 
tion of  fact ;  secondly,  the  manifesting  of  human  design 
and  authority  in  the  way  the  fact  is  told.  Great  and 
good  art  must  unite  the  two ;  it  cannot  exist  for  a 
moment  but  in  their  unity;  it  consists  of  the  two  as 
essentially  as  water  consists  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  or 
marble  of  lime  and  carbonic  acid. 


THE  GROUNDS   OF  ART.  91 

Let  us  inquire  a  little  into  the  nature  of  each  of  the 
elements.  The  first  element,  we  say,  is  the  love  of 
Nature,  leading  to  the  effort  to  observe  and  report  her 
truly.  And  this  is  the  first  and  leading  element. 
Eeview  for  yourselves  the  history  of  art,  and  you  will 
find  this  to  be  a  manifest  certainty,  that  no  (/reat  school  ■ 
ever  yet  existed  ivhieh  had  not  for  j^riitial  aim  the  repre- 
sentation of  some  natural  faet  as  trultj  as  j-^ossible.   .   .  . 

Wheresoever  the  search  after  truth  begins,  there  lifeA, 
besrins  ;  wheresoever  that  search  ceases,  there  life 
ceases.  As  long  as  a  school  of  art  holds  any  chain  of 
natural  facts,  trying  to  discover  more  of  them  and 
express  them  better  daily,  it  may  play  hither  and 
thither  as  it  likes  on  this  side  of  the  chain  or  that ;  it 
may  design  grotesques  and  conventionalisms,  build  the 
simplest  buildings,  serve  the  most  practical  utilities, 
yet  all  it  does  will  be  gloriously  designed  and  gloriously 
done  ;  but  let  it  once  quit  hold  of  the  chain  of  natural 
fact,  cease  to  pursue  that  as  the  clew  to  its  work ;  let  it 
propose  to  itself  any  other  end  than  preaching  this 
living  word,  and  think  first  of  showing  its  own  skill  or 
its  own  fancy,  and  from  that  hour  its  fall  is  precipitate 
—  its  destruction  sure;  nothing  that  it  does  or  designs 
will  ever  have  life  or  loveliness  in  it  more  ;  its  hour  has 
come,  and  there  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge, 
nor  wisdom  in  the  grave  whither  it  goeth. —  The  Tivo 
Paths,  sees.  17-23.  -»-a_^- 


92  JOHN  EUSKIN. 


THE   liMAGINATIOK 

ASSOCIATIVE. 


We  find  that  the  imagination  has  three  totally  dis- 
tinct functions.  It  combines,  and  by  combination 
creates  new  forms ;  but  the  secret  principle  of  this 
combination  has  not  been  shown  by  the  analysts. 
Again,  it  treats  or  regards  botli  the  simple  images  and 
its  own  combinations  in  peculiar  ways  ;  and,  thirdly,  it 
penetrates,  analyzes,  and  reaches  trutlis  by  no  other 
faculty  discoverable.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  said  that  in  composition  the  mind  can 
only  take  cognizance  of  likeness  or  dissimilarity,  or  of 
abstract  beauty,  among  the  ideas  it  brings  together.  But 
neither  likeness  nor  dissimilarity  secures  harmony.  We 
saw  in  the  chapter  on  Unity  that  likeness  destroyed 
harmony  or  unity  of  membership  ;  and  that  difference 
did  not  necessarily  secure  it,  but  only  that  particular 
imjjerfectioii  in  each  of  the  harmonizing  parts  which 
can  only  be  supplied  by  its  fellow  part.  If,  therefore, 
the  combination  made  is  to  be  harmonious,  the  artist 
must  induce  in  each  of  its  component  parts  (suppose 
two  only,  for  simplicity's  sake)  such  imperfection  as 
that  the  other  shall  put  it  right.  If  one  of  them  be 
perfect  by  itself,  the  other  will  be  an  excrescence.  Both 
must  be  faulty   when   separate,  and  each  corrected  by 


THE  IMAGINATION.  93 

the  presence  of  the  other.  If  he  can  accomplish  this, 
tlie  result  will  be  beautiful;  it  will  be  a  Avhole,  an 
organized  body  with  dependent  members ;  —  he  is  an 
inventor.  If  not,  let  his  separate  features  be  as  beauti- 
ful, as  apposite,  or  as  resemblant  as  they  may,  they 
form  no  whole.  They  are  two  members  glued  together. 
He  is  only  a  carpenter  and  joiner. 

Now,  the  conceivable  imperfections  of  any  single 
feature  are  infinite.  It  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  fix 
upon  a  form  of  imperfection  in  the  one,  and  try  with 
this  all  the  forms  of  imperfection  of  the  other  until  one 
fits ;  but  the  two  imperfections  must  be  co-relatively 
and  simultaneously  conceived. 

This  is  imagination,  properly  so  called,  imagination 
associative,  the  grandest  mechanical  power  that  the 
human  intelligence  possesses,  and  one  which  will  appear 
more  and  more  marvellous  the  longer  we  consider  it. 
By  its  operation,  two  ideas  are  chosen  out  of  an  infinite 
mass  (for  it  evidently  matters  not  whether  the  imper- 
fections be  conceived  oiit  of  the  infinite  number  con- 
ceivable, or  selected  out  of  a  number  recollected),  tw^o 
ideas  which  are  separately  wrong,  which  together  shall 
be  right,  and  of  whose  unit}^  therefore,  the  idea  must 
be  formed  at  the  instant  they  are  seized,  as  it  is  only  in 
that  unity  that  either-  are  good,  and  therefore  only  the 
conception  of  that  unity  can  prompt  the  preference. 
Now,  what  is  that  prophetic  action  of  mind,  which,  out 
of  an  infinite  mass  of  things  that  cannot  be  tried 
together,  seizes,  at  the  same  instant,  two  that  are  fit 
for  each  other,  together  right ;  yet  each  disagreeable 
alone  ?  .  .  . 


94  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

This  operation  would  be  wonderful  enough,  if  it  were 
concerned  with  two  ideas  only.  But  a  powerfully 
imaoinative  mind  seizes  and  combines  at  the  same 
instant,  not  only  two,  but  all  the  important  ideas  of  its 
poem  or  picture ;  and  while  it  works  with  any  one  of 
them,  it  is  at  the  same  instant  working  with  and  modi- 
fying all  in  their  relations  to  it,  never  losing  sight  of 
their  bearings  on  each  other ;  as  the  motion  of  a  snake's 
body  goes  through  all  parts  at  once,  and  its  volition  acts 
at  the  same  instant  in  coils  that  go  contrary  ways. 

This  faculty  is  indeed  something  that  looks  as  if  man 
were  made  after  the  image  of  God.  It  is  inconceivable, 
admirable,  altogether  divine ;  and  yet  wonderful  as  it 
may  seem,  it  is  palpably  evident  that  no  less  an  opera- 
tion is  necessary  for  the  production  of  any  great  work  : 
for,  by  the  definition  of  Unity  of  Membership  (the 
essential  characteristic  of  greatness),  not  only  certain 
couples  or  groups  of  parts,  but  all  the  parts  of  a  noble 
work  must  be  separately  imperfect  ;  each  must  imply 
and  ask  for  all  the  rest,  and  the  glory  of  every  one  of 
them  must  consist  in  its  relation  to  the  rest;  neither 
while  so  much  as  one  is  wanting  can  any  be  right.  .   .  . 

Tlie  final  tests,  therefore,  of  the  work  of  associative 
imagination  are,  its  intense  simplicity,  its  perfect  har- 
mony, and  its  absolute  truth.  It  may  be  a  harmony, 
majestic  or  humble,  abrupt  or  prolonged,  but  it  is 
always  a  governed  and  perfect  whole  ;  evidencing  in  all 
its  relations  the  weight,  prevalence,  and  universal 
dominion  of  an  awful,  inexplicable  Power  ;  a  chastising, 
animating,  and  disposing  Mind. 


THE  IMAGINATION. 


PENETRATIVE. 


Thus  far  we  have  been  defining  that  combining  opera- 
tion of  the  Imagination,  which  appears  to  be  in  a  sort 
mechanical,  yet  takes  place  in  the  same  inexplicable 
modes,  whatever  be  the  order  of  conception  submitted  to 
it,  though  I  chose  to  illustrate  it  by  its  dealings  with 
mere  matter  before  taking  cognizance  of  any  nobler 
subjects  of  imagery.  We  must  now  examine  tlie  deal- 
ing of  the  Imagination  with  its  separate  conceptions, 
and  endeavor  to  understand  not  only  its  principles  of 
selection,  but  its  modes  of  apprehension  with  respect  to 
what  it  selects. 

Such  is  always  the  mode  in  which  the  highest  imagi- 
native faculty  seizes  its  materials.  It  never  stops  at 
crusts  or  ashes,  or  outward  images  of  any  kind ;  it 
plouglis  them  all  aside,  and  plunges  into  the  very  cen- 
tral fiery  heart;  nothing  else  will  content  its  spiritual- 
ity ;  whatever  semblances  and  various  outward  shows 
and  phases  its  subject  may  possess,  go  for  nothing;  it 
gets  within  all  fence,  cuts  down  to  the  root,  and  drinks 
the  very  vital  sap  of  that  it  deals  with  :  once  tlierein  it 
is  at  liberty  to  throw  up  what  new  shoots  it  will,  so 
always  that  the  true  juice  and  sap  be  in  them,  and  to 
prune  and  twist  them  at  its  pleasure,  and  bring  them 
to  fairer  fruit  than  grew  on  the  old  tree  ;  but  all  this 
pruning  and  twisting  is  work  that  it  likes  not,  and  often 
does  ill ;  its  function  and  gift  are  the  getting  at  the 
root,  its  nature  and  dignity  depend  on  its  liolding  things 
always  by  the  heart.     Take  its  hand  from  off  the  beat- 


96  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

ing  of  that,  and  it  will  prophesy  no  longer;  it  looks  not 
in  the  eyes,  it  judges  not  by  the  voice,  it  describes  not 
by  outward  features ;  all  that  it  affirms,  judges,  or 
describes,  it  affirms  from  within. 

It  may  seem  to  the  reader  that  I  am  incorrect  in 
calling  this  penetrating,  possession-taking  faculty, 
Imagination.  Be  it  so,  the  name  is  of  little  conse- 
quence ;  the  faculty  itself,  called  by  what  name  we 
will,  I  insist  upon  as  the  highest  intellectual  power  of 
man.  There  is  no  reasoning  in  it,  it  works  not  by 
algebra,  nor  by  integral  calcnlus,  it  is  a  piercing,  pholas- 
like  mind's  tongue  that  works  and  tastes  into  the  very 
rock  heart ;  no  matter  what  be  tlie  subject  sul)mitted  to 
it,  substance,  or  spirit ;  all  is  alike  divided  asunder, 
joint  and  marrow,  whatever  utmost  truth,  life,  princi- 
ple it  has,  laid  bare;  and  that  which  has  no  truth,  life, 
nor  principle,  dissipated  into  its  original  smoke  at  a 
touch.  The  whispers  at  men's  ears  it  lifts  into  visible 
angels.  Vials  that  have  lain  sealed  in  the  deep  sea  a 
thousand  years  it  unseals,  and  brings  out  of  them  Genii. 

Every  great  conception  of  poet  or  painter  is  held  and 
treated  by  this  faculty.  Every  character  that  is  so 
much  as  touched  by  men  like  ^schylus.  Homer,  Dante, 
or  Shakespeare,  is  by  them  held  by  the  heart ;  and  every 
circumstance  or  sentence  of  their  being,  si)eaking,  or 
seeming,  is  seized  by  process  from  within,  and  is  re- 
ferred to  that  inner  secret  spring  of  which  the  hold  is 
never  lost  for  an  instant ;  so  that  every  sentence,  as  it 
has  been  thought  out  from  the  heart,  opens  for  us  a  way 
down   to  the   heart,  leads  us  to  the    centre,    and   then 


THE  IMAGINATION.  97 

leaves  us  to  gather  Avhat  more  we  may.  It  is  the  Open 
Sesame  of  a  huge,  obscure,  endless  cave,  with  inexhaust- 
ible treasure  of  pure  gold  scattered  in  it ;  the  wandering 
about  and  gathering  the  pieces  may  be  left  to  any  of 
us,  all  can  accomplish  that ;  but  the  first  opening  of 
that  invisible  door  in  the  rock  is  of  the  imagination  only. 

Hence  there  is  in  every  word  set  down  by  the  imagi- 
native mind  an  awful  under-current  of  meaning,  and 
evidence  and  shadow  upon  it  of  the  deep  places  out  of 
which  it  has  come.  It  is  often  obscure,  often  half  told, 
for  he  who  wrote  it,  in  his  clear  seeing  of  the  things 
beneath,  may  have  been  impatient  of  detailed  interpre- 
tation ;  but  if  we  choose  to  dwell  upon  it  and  trace  it, 
it  will  lead  us  always  securely  back  to  that  metropolis 
of  the  soul's  dominion  from  which  we  may  follow  out 
all  the  ways  and  tracks  to  its  farthest  coasts. 

1  think  the  '•'  Quel  giorno  piii  non  vi  leggemmo  avante  " 
of  Francesca  di  Eimini,  and  the  "  He  has-  no  children  " 
of  Macduff  are  as  fine  instances  as  can  be  given  ;  but 
the  sign  and  mark  of  it  are  visible  on  every  line  of  the 
four  great  men  above  instanced. 

Now,  in  all  these  instances,  let  it  be  observed  —  for  it 
is  to  that  end  alone  that  I  have  been  arguing  all  along 
—  that  the  virtue  of  the  Imagination  is  its  reaching,  by 
intuition  and  intensity  of  gaze  (not  by  reasoning,  but 
by  its  authoritative  opening  and  revealing  power),  a 
more  essential  truth  than  is  seen  at  the  surface  of 
things.  I  repeat  that  it  matters  not  whether  the  reader 
is  willing  to  call  this  faculty  Imagination  or  not ;  I  do 
not  care  about  the  name;  but  I  would  be   understood 


98  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

when  I  speak  of  imagination  hereafter,  to  mean  this 
the  base  of  whose  authority  and  being  is  its  perpetual 
thirst  for  truth  and  purpose  to  be  true.  It  has  no  food, 
no  delight,  no  care,  no  perception,  except  of  truth ;  it  is 
forever  looking  under  masks,  and  burning  up  mists  ;  no 
fairness  of  form,  no  majesty  of  seeming  will  satisfy  it ; 
the  first  condition  of  its  existence  is  incapability  of 
being  deceived  ;  and  though  it  sometimes  dwells  upon 
and  substantiates  the  fictions  of  fancy,  yet  its  own 
operation  is  to  trace  to  their  farthest  limit  the  true  laws 
and  likelihoods  even  of  the  fictitious  creation.  .  .  . 

Finally,  it  is  evident  that,  like  the  theoretic  faculty, 
the  imagination  must  be  fed  constantly  by  external 
nature  —  after  the  illustrations  we  have  given,  this  may 
seem  mere  truism,  for  it  is  clear  that  to  the  exercise  of 
the  penetrative  faculty  a  subject  of  penetration  is  neces- 
sary ;  but  I  note  it  because  many  painters  of  powerful 
mind  have  been  lost  to  the  world  by  their  suffering  the 
restless  writhing  of  their  imagination  in  its  cage  to 
take  place  of  its  healthy  and  exulting  activity  in  the 
fields  of  nature.  The  most  imaginative  men  always 
study  the  hardest,  and  are  the  most  thirsty  for  new 
knowledge.  Fancy  plays  like  a  squirrel  in  its  circular 
prison,  and  is  happy  ;  but  Imagination  is  a  pilgrim  on 
the  earth  —  and  her  home  is  in  heaven.  Shut  her  from 
the  fields  of  the  celestial  mountains  —  bar  her  from 
breathing  their  lofty,  sun-warmed  air  ;  and  we  may  as 
well  turn  upon  her  the  last  bolt  of  tlie  Tower  of  Famine, 
and  give  the  keys  to  the  keeping  of  the  wildest  surge 
that  washes  Capraja  and  Gorgona. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  99 


CONTEMPLATIVE. 

We  have,  in  the  two  preceding  chapters,  arrived  at 
definite  conch^sions  respecting  tlie  power  and  essence  of 
the  imaginative  faculty.  In  these  two  acts  of  penetra- 
tion and  combination,  its  separating  and  characteristic 
attributes  are  entirely  developed ;  it  remains  for  us 
only  to  observe  a  certain  habit  or  mode  of  operation  in 
which  it  frequently  delights,  and  by  which  it  addresses 
itself  to  our  perceptions  more  forcibly,  and  asserts  its 
presence  more  distinctly,  than  in  those  mighty  but  more 
secret  workings  wherein  its  life  consists. 

In  our  examination  of  the  combining  imagination,  we 
chose  to  assume  the  first  or  simple  conception  to  be  as 
clear  in  the  absence  as  in  the  presence  of  the  object  of 
it.  This,  I  suppose,  is,  in  point  of  fact,  never  the  case, 
nor  is  an  approximation  to  such  distinctness  of  concep- 
tion always  a  characteristic  of  the  imaginative  mind. 
Many  persons  have  thorough  and  felicitous  power  of 
drawing  from  luemory,  yet  never  originate  a  thought 
nor  excite  an  emotion.  .  .  . 

But  on  this  indistinctness  of  conception,  itself  com- 
paratively valueless  and  unaffecting,  is  based  the  opera- 
tion of  the  imaginative  faculty  with  which  Ave  are  at 
present  concerned,  and  in  which  its  glory  is  consum- 
mated ;  whereby,  depriving  the  subject  of  material  and 
bodily  shape,  and  regarding  such  of  its  qualities  only  as 
it  chooses  for  particular  purpose,  it  forges  these  quali- 
ties together  in  such  groups  and  forms  as  it  desires, 
and    gives    to   their    abstract    being    consistency    and 


100  JOHN  nUSKIN. 

reality,  by  striking  them  as  it  were  with  the  die  of  an 
image  belonging  to  other  matter,  which  stroke  having 
once  received,  they  pass  current  at  once  in  the  peculiar 
conjunction  and  for  the  peculiar  value  desired. 

Thus,  in  the  description  of  Satan  quoted  in  the  first 
chapter,  "And  like  a  comet  burned,"  the  bodily  shape 
of  the  angel  is  destroyed,  the  inflaming  of  the  forjnless 
spirit  is  alone  regarded ;  and  this,  and  his  power  of  evil 
associated  in  one  fearful  and  abstract  conception,  are 
stamped  to  give  them  distinctness  and  permanence  with 
the  image  of  the  comet,  "that  fires  the  length  of 
Ophiuchus  huge."  Yet  this  could  not  be  done,  but  that 
the  image  of  the  comet  itself  is  in  a  measure  indistinct, 
capable  of  awful  expansion,  and  full  of  threatening 
and  fear.  Again,  in  his  fall,  the  imagination  gathers 
up  the  thunder,  the  resistance,  the  massy  prostration, 
separates  them  from  the  external  form,  and  binds  them 
together  by  the  help  of  that  image  of  the  mountain  half- 
sunk  ;  which  again  would  be  unfit  but  for  its  own  in- 
distinctness, and  for  that  glorious  addition  "  with  all  his 
pines,"  whereby  a  vitality  and  spear-like  hostility  are 
communicated  to  its  falling  form;  and  the  fall  is 
marked  as  not  utter  subversion,  but  sinking  only,  the 
pines  remaining  in  their  uprightness  and  unity,  and 
threatening  of  darkness  upon  the  descended  ])recipice ; 
and  again  in  that  yet  more  noble  passage  at  the  close  of 
the  fourth  book,  where  almost  every  operation  of  the 
contemplative  imagination  is  concentrated;  the  angelic 
squadron  first  gathered  into  one  burning  mass  by  the 
single  expression  "  sharpening  in  mooned  horns,"  then 


THE  IMAGINATION.  101 

told  out  in  their  unity  and  multitude  and  stooped  hos- 
tility, by  the  image  of  the  wind  upon  the  corn ;  Satan 
endowed  witli  godlilce  strengtli  and  endurance  in  that 
mighty  line,  "  like  Teneriffe  or  Atlas  unremoved,"  with 
infinitude  of  size  the  next  instant,  and  with  all  the 
vagueness  and  terribleness  of  spiritual  power,  b}-  the 
"  horror  plumed,"  and  tlie  "  what  seemed  both  spear 
and  shield."  .  ,  . 

We  have  now,  I  think,  reviewed  the  various  modes  in 
which  Imagination  contemplative  may  be  exhibited  in 
art,  and  arrived  at  all  necessary  certainties  respecting 
the  essence  of  the  faculty  ;  which  we  have  found  in  all 
its  tliree  functions.  Associative  of  Truth,  Penetrative  of 
Truth,  and  Contemplative  of  Trutli ;  and  having  no 
dealings  nor  relations  with  any  kind  of  falsity.  — 
Modern  Painters,  vol.  ii.    part  iii.    chaps,  i.-iv. 

THE    TEMPER    OF    THE    ARTIST. 

Every  great  composition  is  in  perfect  liarmony  with  all 
true  rules,  and  involves  thousands  too  delicate  for  ear, 
or  eye,  or  tliought  to  trace ;  still  it  is  possil)le  to  reason, 
with  infinite  pleasure  and  profit,  about  these  principles 
when  the  thing  is  once  done  ;  only,  all  our  reasoning 
will  not  enable  any  one  to  do  another  thing  like  it, 
because  all  reasoning  falls  infinitely  short  of  the  divine 
instinct.  Thus  we  nuiy  reason  wisely  over  the  Avay  a 
bee  builds  its  comb,  and  be  profited  by  finding  out  cer- 
tain things  about  the  angles  of  it.  But  the  bee  knows 
nothing  about  those  nuxtters.  It  builds  its  comb  in  a  far 
more  inevitable  way.     And,  from  a  bee  to  Paul  Veronese, 


102  JOHN    RUSK IX. 

all  master-workers  work  Avith  this  awful,  tins  inspired 
unconsciousness.  ... 

Such,  then,  being  the  generally  passive  or  instinctive 
character  of  right  invention,  it  may  be  asked  how  these 
unmanageable  instincts  are  to  be  rendered  practically 
serviceable  in  historical  or  poetical  painting,  —  espe- 
cially historical,  in  which  given  facts  are  to  be  repre- 
sented. Simply  by  the  sense  and  self-control  of  the 
whole  man ;  not  by  control  of  the  particular  fancy  or 
vision.  He  who  habituates  himself,  in  his  daily  life,  to 
seek  for  the  stern  facts  in  whatever  he  hears  or  sees, 
will  have  these  facts  again  brought  before  him  by  the 
involuntary  imaginative  power  in  their  noblest  associa- 
tions ;  and  he  who  seeks  for  frivolities  and  fallacies, 
will  have  frivolities  and  fallacies  again  presented  to  him 
in  his  dreams.   .   .  . 

So,  in  the  higher  or  expressive  part  of  the  work,  the 
whole  virtue  of  it  depends  on  his  being  able  to  quit  his 
own  personality,  and  enter  successively  into  the  hearts 
and  thoughts  of  each  person  ;  and  in  all  this  he  is  still 
passive  :  in  gathering  the  truth  he  is  passive,  not  deter- 
mining what  the  truth  to  be  gathered  shall  be,  and  in 
the  after  vision  he  is  passive,  not  determining,  but  as 
his  dreauis  will  have  it,  what  the  truth  to  be  represented 
shall  be  ;  only  according  to  his  own  nobleness  is  his  power 
of  entering  into  the  hearts  of  noble  persons,  and  the 
general  character  of  his  dream  of  them. 

It  follows  from  all  this,  evidently,  that  a  great 
idealist  never  can  be  egotistic.  The  whole  of  his  po.vyer 
depends   upon  his  losing  sight  and  feeling  of  his  own 


THE  IMAGINATION.  103 

existence,  and  becoming  a  mere  witness  and  mirror  of 
truth,  and  a  scribe  of  visions, —  always  passive  in  siglit, 
Ijassive  in  utterance,  —  lamenting  continually  that  he  can- 
not completely  reflect  nor  clearly  utter  all  he  has  seen. 
Not  by  any  means  a  proud  state  for  a  man  to  be  in.  But 
the  man  who  has  no  invention  is  always  setting  things 
in  order,  and  putting  the  woi-JiL-te-idg^hts,  and  mending, 
and  beautifying,  and  pluming  himself  on  his  doings  as 
supreme  in  all  ways.  —  Vol.  iii.  part  iv.  chap.  vii. 

You  must  have  the  right  moral  state  first,  or  you  can- 
not have  the  art.  But  when  the  art  is  once  obtained, 
its  reflected  action  enhances  and  completes  the  moral 
state  out  of  which  it  arose,  and,  above  all,  communi- 
cates the  exaltation  to  other  minds  which  are  already 
morally  capable  of  the  like. 

For  instance,  take  the  art  of  singing,  and  the  simplest 
perfect  master  of  it  (up  to  the  limits  of  his  nature)  whom 
you  can  find  —  a  skylark.  From  him  you  may  learn  Avhat 
it  is  to  '  sing  for  joy.'  You  must  get  the  moral  state 
first,  the  pure  gladness,  then  give  it  finished  expression ; 
and  it  is  perfected  in  itself,  and  made  communicable  to 
other  creatures  capable  of  such  joy.  But  it  is  incom- 
municable to  those  who  are  not  prepared  to  receive  it. 

Now,  all  right  human  song  is,  similarly,  the  finished 
expression,  by  art,  of  the  joy  or  grief  of  noble  persons, 
for  right  causes.  And  accurately  in  proportion  to  the 
lightness  of  the  cause,  and  purity  of  the  emotion,  is  the 
possibility  of  the  fine  art.  A  maiden  may  sing  of  her 
lost  love,  but  a  miser  cannot  sing  of  his  lost  money. 


104  JOHN   nUSKIN. 

And  with  absolute  precision  from  highest  to  lowest,  the 
fineness  of  the  possible  art  is  an  index  of  the  moral 
purity  and  majesty  of  the  emotion  it  expresses.  You 
may  test  it  practically  at  any  instant.  Question  with 
yourself  concerning  any  feeling  that  has  taken  strong 
possession  of  your  mind,  "  Could  this  be  sung  by  a 
master,  and  sung  nobly,  with  a  true  melody  and  art  ?  " 
Then  it  is  a  right  feeling.  Could  it  not  be  sung  at  all, 
or  only  sung  ludicrously  ?  It  is  a  base  one.  And  that 
is  so  in  all  the  arts ;  so  that  with  mathematical  precis- 
ion, subject  to  no  error  or  exception,  the  art  of  a  nation, 
so  far  as  it  exists,  is  an  exponent  of  its  ethical  state. 

An  exponent,  observe,  and  exalting  influence  ;  but  not 
the  root  or  cause.  You  cannot  paint  or  sing  yourselves 
into  being  good  men  ;  you  must  be  good  men  before 
you  can  either  paint  or  sing,  and  then  the  colour  and 
sound  will  complete  in  you  all  that  is  best.  ...  As 
soon  as  we  begin  our  real  work,  and  you  have  learned 
what  it  is  to  draw  a  true  line,  I  shall  be  able  to  make 
manifest  to  you  —  and  indisputably  so  —  that  the  day's 
work  of  a  man  like  Mantegna  or  Paul  Veronese  consists 
of  an  unfaltering,  uninterrupted  succession  of  move- 
ments of  the  hand  more  precise  than  those  of  the  finest 
fencer;  the  pencil  leaving  one  point  and  arriving  at 
another,  not  only  with  unerring  precision  at  the  extrem- 
ity of  the  line,  but  with  an  unerring  and  yet  varied 
course  —  sometimes  over  spaces  a  foot  or  more  in  extent 
— yet  a  course  so  determined  everywhere  that  either  of 
these  men  could,  and  Veronese  often  does,  draAv  a 
finished  profile,  or  any  other  portion  of  the  contour  of  a 


THE  IMAGINATION.  105 

face,  with  one  line,  not  afterwards  changed.  Try,  first, 
to  realize  to  yourselves  the  muscular  precision  of  tliat 
action^  and  the  intellectual  strain  of  it ;  for  the  move- 
ment of  a  fencer  is  perfect  in  practised  monotony ;  but 
the  movement  of  the  hand  of  a  great  painter  is  at  every 
instant  governed  by  direct  and  new  intention.  Then 
imagine  that  muscular  firmness  and  subtlety,  and  the 
instantaneously  selective  and  ordinant  energy  of  the 
brain,  sustained  all  dny  long,  not  only  without  fatigue, 
but  with  a  visible  joy  in  the  exertion,  like  that  which 
an  eagle  seems  to  take  in  the  wave  of  his  wings ;  and 
this  all  life  long,  and  through  long  life,  not  only  with- 
out failure  of  power,  but  with  visible  increase  of  it, 
until  the  actually  organic  changes  of  old  age.  And  then 
consider,  so  far  as  you  know  anything  of  physiology, 
what  sort  of  an  ethical  state  of  body  and  mind  that 
means!  —  ethic  through  ages  past!  what  fineness  of 
race  there  must  be  to  get  it,  what  exquisite  balance  and 
symmetry  of  the  vital  powers  !  And  then,  finally, 
determine  for  yourselves  whether  a  manhood  like  that 
is  consistent  with  any  viciousness  of  soul,  with  any 
mean  anxiety,  any  gnawing  lust,  any  wretchedness  oi 
spite  or  remorse,  any  consciousness  of  rebellion  againsi 
law  of  God  or  man,  or  any  actual,  though  unconscious, 
violation  of  even  the  least  law  to  which  obedience  is 
essential  for  the  glory  of  life,  and  the  pleasing  of  its 
Giver.  — Lectures  on  Art,  sees.  Q>Q>,  67,  68. 

But  also,  remember,  that  the  art-gift  itself  is  only  the 
result   of  the  moral    character   of   generations.     A  bad 


106  JOHN  nil  SKIN. 

■woman  may  have  a  sweet  voice ;  but  that  sweetness  of 
voice  comes  of  the  past  morality  of  her  race.  That  she 
can  siug  with  it  at  all,  she  owes  to  the  determination  of 
laws  of  music  by  the  morality  of  the  past.  Every  act, 
every  impulse,  of  virtue  and  vice,  affects  in  any  creature, 
face,  voice,  nervous  power,  and  vigour  and  harmony  of 
invention,  at  once.  Perseverance  in  rightness  of  human 
conduct,  renders,  after  a  certain  number  of  generations, 
human  art  possible  ;  every  sin  clouds  it,  be  it  ever  so  little 
a  one ;  and  persistent  vicious  living  and  following  of 
pleasure  render,  after  a  certain  number  of  generations,  all 
art  impossible.  Men  are  deceived  by  the  long-suffering  of 
the  laws  of  nature ;  and  mistake,  in  a  nation,  the  reward 
of  the  virtue  of  its  sires  for  the  issue  of  its  own  sins. 
The  time  of  their  visitation  will  come,  and  that  inevi- 
tably ;  for,  it  is  always  true,  that  if  the  fathers  have 
eaten  sour  grapes,  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge. 
And  for  the  individual,  as  soon  as  you  have  learned  to 
read,  you  may,  as  I  said,  know  him  to  the  heart's  core, 
through  his  art.  Let  his  art-gift  be  never  so  great,  and 
cultivated  to  the  height  by  the  schools  of  a  great  race  of 
men  ;  and  it  is  still  but  a  tapestry  thrown  over  his  own 
being  and  inner  soul ;  and  the  bearing  of  it  will  show, 
infallibly,  whether  it  hangs  on  a  man,  or  on  a  skeleton. 
If  you  are  dim-eyed,  you  may  not  see  the  difference  in 
the  fall  of  the  folds  at  first,  but  learn  how  to  look,  and 
the  folds  themselves  will  become  transparent,  and  you 
shall  see  through  them  the  death's  shape,  or  the  divine 
one,  making  the  tissue  above  it  as  a  cloud  of  light,  or  as 
a  winding-sheet.  —  The  Queen  of  the  Air,  sec.  107. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  107 


THREE    SCHOOLS    OF    ART. 

Artists,  considered  as  searchers  after  truth,  are  to  be 
divided  into  three  great  classes,  a  right,  a  left,  and  a  centre. 
Those  on  the  riglit  perceive  and  pursue  the  good,  and 
leave  the  evil ;  those  in  the  centre,  the  greatest,  per- 
ceive and  pursue  tlie  good  and  evil  together,  tlie  whole 
thing  as  it  verily  is :  those  on  the  left  perceive  and 
pursue  the  evil,  and  leave  the  good. 

The  first  class,  I  say,  take  the  good  and  leave  the  evil. 
Out  of  whatever  is  presented  to  them,  they  gather  what 
it  has  of  grace,  and  life,  and  light,  and  holiness,  and 
leave  all,  or  at  least  as  much  as  possible,  of  the  rest  un- 
drawn. The  faces  of  their  figures  express  no  evil  pas- 
sions ;  the  skies  of  their  landscapes  are  without  storm ; 
the  prevalent  character  of  their  colour  is  brightness,  and 
of  their  chiaroscuro  fulness  of  light.  The  early  Italian 
and  Flemish  painters,  Angelico  and  Hemling,  Perugino, 
Francia,  Eaffaelle  in  his  best  time,  John  Bellini,  and 
our  own  Stothard,  belong  eminently  to  this  class. 

The  second,  or  greatest  class,  render  all  that  they  see 
in  nature  unhesitatingly,  wdth  a  kind  of  divine  grasp 
and  government  of  the  whole,  sympathizing  with  all  the 
good,  and  yet  confessing,  permitting,  and  bringing  good 
out  of  the  evil  also.  Their  subject  is  infinite  as  nature, 
their  colour  equally  balanced  between  splendor  and  sad- 
ness, reaching  occasionally  the  highest  degrees  of  both, 
and  their  chiaroscuro  equally  balanced  between  light 
and  shade. 

The  principal  men  of  this  class  are  Michael  Angelo, 


108  JOHN   FiUSKIX. 

Leonardo,  Giotto,  Tintoret,  and  Turner.  Eaffaelle  in  his 
second  time,  Titian  and  Rubens  are  transitional;  tlie 
first  inclining  to  the  eclectic,  and  the  last  two  to  the 
impure  class,  EaiTaelle  rarely  giving  all  the  evil,  Titian 
and  Rubens  rarely  all  the  good. 

The  last  class  perceive  and  imitate  evil  only.  They 
cannot  draw  the  trunk  of  a  tree  without  blasting  and 
shattering  it,  nor  a  sky  except  covered  with  stormy 
clouds ;  they  delight  in  the  beggary  and  brutality  of 
the  human  race  ;  their  colour  is  for  the  most  part  sub- 
dued or  lurid,  and  the  greatest  part  of  their  pictures  are 
occupied  by  darkness. 

Happily  the  examples  of  this  class  are  seldom  seen  in 
perfection.  Salvator  Rosa  and  Caravaggio  are  the  most 
characteristic  :  the  other  men  belonging  to  it  approach 
towards  the  central  rank  by  imperceptible  gradations,  as 
they  perceive  and  represent  more  and  more  of  good. 
But  jMurillo,  Zurbaran,  Camillo  Procaccini,  Rembrandt, 
and  Teniers  all  belong  naturally  to  this  lower  class.  .  .  . 

Let  us,  then,  endeavor  briefly  to  mark  the  real  rela- 
tions of  these  three  vast  ranks  of  men,  whom  I  shall 
call  for  convenience  in  speaking  of  them.  Purists, 
Naturalists,  and  Sensualists.  .  .  .  The  passions  of 
which  the  end  is  the  continuance  of  the  race ;  the 
indignation  which  is  to  arm  it  against  injustice,  or 
strengthen  it  to  resist  wanton  injury,  and  the  fear  which 
lies  at  the  root  of  prudence,  reverence,  and  awe,  are  all 
honorable  and  beautiful,  so  long  as  man  is  regarded  in 
his  relation  to  the  existing  world.  The  religious  Purist, 
striving  to  conceive  him  witlidrawn  from  those  relations, 


THE  IMAGINATION.  109 

effaces  from  the  countenance  the  traces  of  all  transi- 
torv  passion,  illumines  it  with  holy  ho2)e  and  love,  and 
seals  it  with  the  serenity  of  heavenly  peace ;  he  con- 
ceals the  forms  of  the  body  by  the  deep-folded  garment, 
or  else  represents  them  under  severely  chastened  types, 
and  would  rather  paint  them  emaciated  by  the  fast,  or 
pale  from  the  torture,  than  strengthened  by  exertion,  or 
flushed  by  emotion.  But  the  great  Naturalist  takes  the 
human  being  in  its  wholeness,  in  its  mortal  as  well  as 
its  spiritual  strength.  Capable  of  sounding  and  sympa- 
thizing with  the  whole  range  of  its  passions,  he  brings 
one  majestic  harmony  out  of  them  all ;  he  represents  it 
fearlessly  in  all  its  acts  and  thoughts,  in  its  haste,  its 
anger,  its  sensuality,  and  its  pride,  as  well  as  in  its 
fortitude  or  faith,  but  makes  it  noble  in  them  all;  he 
casts  aside  the  veil  from  the  body,  and  beholds  the 
mysteries  of  its  form  like  an  angel  looking  down  on  an 
inferior  creature  :  there  is  nothing  that  he  is  reluctant 
to  behold,  nothing  that  he  is  ashamed  to  confess;  with 
all  that  lives,  triumphing,  falling,  or  suffering,  he  claims 
kindred,  either  in  majesty  or  in  mercy,  yet  standing,  in. 
a  sort,  afar  off,  unmoved  even  in  the  deepness  of  his 
sympathy,  for  the  spirit  within  him  is  too  thoughtful  to 
be  grieved,  too  brave  to  be  appalled,  and  too  pure  to  be 
polluted.  —  Stones  of  Venice,  vol.  ii.  chap,  vi. 

Purist  Idealism  results  from  the  unwillingness  of 
men  whose  dispositions  are  more  than  ordinarily  tender 
and  holy,  to  contemplate  the  various  forms  of  definite 
evil  which  necessarily  occur  in  the  daily  aspects  of  the 


110  JOUN  BUSKIN. 

world  around  them.  They  shrink  from  them  as  from 
pollution,  and  endeavor  to  create  for  themselves  an 
imaginary  state,  in  which  pain  and  imperfection  do  not 
exist  or  exist  in  some  edgeless  and  enfeebled  condition. 

As,  however,  pain  and  imperfection  are,  by  eternal 
laws,  bound  up  with  existence,  so  far  as  it  is  visible  to 
us,  the  endeavor  to  cast  them  away  invariably  indicates 
a  comparative  childishness  of  mind,  and  produces  a 
childish  form  of  art.  In  general,  the  effort  is  most 
successful  when  it  is  most  na'ive,  and  when  the  ignorance 
of  the  draughtsman  is  in  some  frank  proportion  to  his 
innocence.  For  instance,  one  of  the  modes  of  treat- 
ment, the  most  conducive  to  this  ideal  expression,  is 
simply  drawing  everything  without  shadows,  as  if  the 
sun  were  everywhere  at  once.  This,  in  the  present 
state  of  our  knowledge,  we  could  not  do  with  grace, 
because  we  could  not  do  it  without  fear  or  shame.  But 
an  artist  of  the  thirteenth  century  did  it  with  no 
disturbance  of  conscience, — knowing  no  better,  or 
rather,  in  some  sense  we  might  say,  knowing  no  worse. 
It  is,  however,  evident,  at  first  thought,  that  all  repre- 
sentations of  nature  without  evil  must  either  be  ideals 
of  a  future  world,  or  be  false  ideals,  if  they  are  under- 
stood to  be  representations  of  facts.  They  can  only  be 
classed  among  the  branches  of  the  true  ideal,  in  so  far 
as  they  are  understood  to  be  nothing  more  than  expres- 
sions of  the  painter's  personal  affections  or  hopes. 

Let  us  take  one  or  two  instances  in  order  clearly  to 
explain  our  meaning. 

The  life  of  Angelico  was  almost  entirely  spent  in  the 


THE  IMAGINATION.  Ill 

endeavor  to  imagine  the  beings  belonging  to  another 
worhl.  By  purity  of  life,  habitual  elevation  of  thought, 
and  natural  sweetness  of  disposition,  he  was  enabled  to 
express  the  sacred  affections  upon  the  human  counte- 
nance as  no  one  ever  did  before  or  since.  In  order  to 
effect  clearer  distinction  between  heavenly  beings  and 
those  of  this  world,  he  represents  the  former  as  clothed 
in  draperies  of  the  purest  colour,  crowned  Avith  glories 
of  burnished  gold,  and  entirely  shadowless.  With 
exquisite  choice  of  gesture,  and  disposition  of  folds  of 
drapery,  this  mode  of  treatment  gives,  perhaps,  the 
best  idea  of  spiritual  beings  which  the  human  mind  is 
capable  of  forming.  It  is,  therefore,  a  true  ideal ;  but 
the  mode  in  which  it  is  arrived  at  (being  so  far  mechan- 
ical and  contradictory  of  tlie  appearances  of  nature) 
necessarily  precludes  those  who  practise  it  from  being 
complete  masters  of  their  art.  It  is  always  childish, 
but  beautiful  in  its  childisliness.  .  .  . 

It  is  finally  to  be  remembered,  therefore,  that  Purism 
is  always  noble  when  it  is  instinctive.  It  is  not  the 
greatest  thing  that  can  be  done,  but  it  is  probably  the 
greatest  thing  that  the  man  who  does  it  can  do,  pro- 
vided it  comes  from  his  heart.  True,  it  is  a  sign  of 
weakness,  but  it  is  not  in  our  choice  whether  we  will  be 
weak  or  strong ;  and  there  is  a  certain  strength  which 
can  only  be  made  perfect  in  weakness.  If  he  is  work- 
ing in  humility,  fear  of  evil,  desire  of  beauty,  and  sin- 
cere purity  of  purpose  and  thought,  he  will  produce 
good  and  helpful  things  ;  but  he  must  be  much  on  his 
guard  against  supposing  himself  to  be  greater  than  his 


112  JOHN  liUSEIN. 

fellows,  because  he  has  shut  himself  into  this  calm 
and  cloistered  sphere.  His  only  safety  lies  in  knowing 
himself  to  be,  on  the  contrary,  less  than  his  fellows,  and 
in  always  striving,  so  far  as  he  can  find  it  in  his  heart, 
to  extend  his  delicate  narrowness  towards  the  great 
naturalist  ideal. — Modern  Pamters,  vol.  iii.  part  iv. 
chap.  vi. 

We  now  enter  on  the  consideration  of  that  central 
and  highest  branch  of  ideal  art  which  concerns  itself 
simply  with  things  as  they  are,  and  accepts,  in  all  of 
them,  alike  the  evil  and  the  good.  The  question  is, 
therefore,  how  the  art  which  represents  things  simply 
as  they  are,  can  be  called  ideal  at  all.  How  does  it 
meet  that  requirement  stated  in  chap.  iii.  sec.  iv.  as 
imperative  on  all  great  art,  that  it  shall  be  inventive, 
and  a  product  of  the  imagination  ?  It  meets  it  pre- 
eminently by  that  power  of  arrangement  which  I  have 
endeavored,  at  great  length,  and  with  great  pains,  to 
define  accurately  in  the  chapter  on  Imagination  associa- 
tive in  the  second  volume.  That  is  to  say,  accepting 
the  weaknesses,  faults,  and  wrongnesses  in  all  things 
that  it  sees,  it  so  places  and  harmonizes  them  that  they 
form  a  noble  whole,  in  which  the  imperfection  of  each 
several  part  is  not  only  harmless,  but  absolutely  essen- 
tial, and  yet  in  which  whatever  is  good  in  each  several 
part  shall  be  completely  displayed. 

This  operation  of  true  idealism  holds,  from  the  least 
things  to  the  greatest.  For  instance,  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  smallest  masses  of  colour,  the  false  idealist. 


THE  IMAGINATION.  113 

or  even  the  purist,  depends  upon  perfecting  each  sepa- 
rate hue,  and  raises  them  all,  as  far  as  he  can,  into 
costly  brilliancy  ;  but  the  naturalist  takes  the  coarsest 
and  feeblest  colours  of  the  things  around  him,  and  so 
interweaves  and  opposes  them  that  they  become  more 
lovely  than  if  they  had  all  been  briglit.  So  in  the  treat- 
ment of  the  human  form,  the  naturalist  will  take  it  as 
he  finds  it ;  but,  with  such  examples  as  his  picture  may 
rationally  admit  of  more  or  less  exalted  beauty,  he  will 
associate  inferior  forms,  so  as  not  only  to  set  off  those 
which  are  most  beautiful,  but  to  bring  out  clearly  what 
good  there  is  in  the  inferior  forms  themselves ;  finally 
usino:  such  measure  of  absolute  evil  as  there  is  com- 
inonly  in  nature,  both  for  teaching  and  for  contrast.  .  .  . 

And  the  greater  the  master  of  the  ideal,  the  more 
perfectly  true  in  portraiture  will  his  individual  figures 
be  always  found,  the  more  subtle  and  bold  his  arts  of 
harmony  and  contrast.  This  is  a  universal  principle, 
common  to  all  great  art.  Consider,  in  Shakspere,  how 
Prince  Henry  is  opposed  to  Falstaff,  Falstaff  to  Shallow, 
Titania  to  Bottom,  Cordelia  to  Regan,  Imogen  to  Cloten, 
and  so  on  ;  while  all  the  meaner  idealists  disdain  the 
naturalism,  and  are  shocked  at  the  contrasts.  The  fact 
is,  a  man  who  can  see  truth  at  all,  sees  it  wholly,  and 
neither  desires  nor  dares  to  mutilate  it.  .  .  . 

jSTow,  therefore,  observe  the  main  conclusions  which 
follow  from  these  two  conditions,  attached  always  to 
art  of  this  kind.  First,  it  is  to  be  taken  straight  from 
nature :  it  is  to  be  the  plain  narration  of  something  the 
painter   or   writer  saw.     Herein  is  the  chief  practical 


114  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

difference  between  the  higher  and  lower  artists ;  a 
difference  which  I  feel  more  and  more  every  day  that  I 
give  to  the  study  of  art.  All  the  great  men  see  what 
they  paint  before  they  paint  it  —  see  it  in  a  perfectly 
passive  manner,  —  cannot  help  seeing  it  if  they  would  ; 
whether  in  their  mind's  eye,  or  in  bodily  fact,  does 
not  matter  ;  very  often  the  mental  vision  is,  I  believe, 
in  men  of  imagination,  clearer  than  the  bodily  one  ;  but 
vision  it  is,  of  one  kind  or  another,  —  the  whole  scene, 
character,  or  incident,  passing  before  them  as  in  second 
sight,  whether  they  will  or  no,  and  requiring  them  to 
paint  it  as  they  see  it ;  they  not  daring,  under  the  might 
of  its  presence,  to  alter  one  jot  or  tittle  of  it  as  they 
write  it  down  or  paint  it  down  ;  it  being  to  them  in  its 
own  kind  and  degree  always  a  true  vision  or  Apocalypse, 
and  invariably  accompanied  in  their  hearts  by  a  feeling 
correspondent  to  the  words,  —  "  Write  the  things  wliicli 
thou  hast  seen  and  the  things  which  are.^^  —  Vol.  iii. 
part  iv.  chap.  vii. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  LANDSCAPE  ART.      115 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  LANDSCAPE  APvT. 

You  are  all  of  you  well  aware  that  landscape  seems 
hardly  to  have  exercised  any  strong  influence,  as  such, 
on  any  pagan  nation,  or  pagan  artist.  I  have  no  time  to 
enter  into  any  details  on  this,  of  course,  most  intricate 
and  difficult  subject ;  but  I  will  only  ask  you  to  observe, 
that  wherever  natural  scenery  is  alluded  to  by  the 
ancients,  it  is  either  agriculturally,  with  the  kind  of 
feeling  that  a  good  Scotch  farmer  has  ;  sensually,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  sun  or  shade,  cool  winds  or  sweet  scents ; 
fearfully,  in  a  mere  vulgar  dread  of  rocks  and  desolate 
places,  as  compared  with  the  comfort  of  cities ;  or, 
Anally,  superstitiously,  in  the  personitication  or  deitica- 
tion  of  natural  powers.  .  .  . 

You  will  find,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  language  of 
the  Bible  is  specifically  distinguished  from  all  other 
early  literature,  by  its  delight  in  natural  imagery  ;  and 
that  the  dealings  of  God  with  His  people  are  calculated 
peculiarly  to  awaken  this  sensibility  within  them.  .  .  . 
Einally,  Christ  himself,  setting  the  concluding  example 
to  the  conduct  and  thoughts  of  men,  spends  nearly  his 
whole  life  in  the  fields,  the  mountains,  or  the  small 
country  villages  of  Judea.  ...  It  would  thus  naturally 
follow,  both  from  the  general  tone  and  teaching  of  the 
scriptures,  and  from  the  example  of  our  Lord  himself, 
that  wherever  Christianity  was  preached  and  accepted, 


116  jonx  ni'SKiN. 

there  would  be  an  immediate  interest  awakened  in  the 
works  of  God,  as  seen  in  the  natural  world ;  and, 
accordingly,  this  is  the  second  universal  and  distinctive 
character  of  Christian  art,  as  distinguished  from  all 
pagan  work,  the  first  being  a  peculiar  spirituality  in  its 
conception  of  the  human  form,  preferring  holiness  of 
expression  and  strength  of  character  to  beauty  of 
features  or  of  body,  and  the  second,  as  I  say,  its  intense 
fondness  for  natural  objects, — animals,  leaves,  and 
flowers,  —  inducing  an  immediate  transformation  of  the 
cold  and  lifeless  pagan  ornamentation  into  vivid  imagery 
of  nature.  Of  course  this  manifestation  of  feeling  was 
at  first  checked  by  the  circumstances  under  which  the 
Christian  religion  was  disseminated.  The  art  of  the 
first  three  centuries  is  entirely  subordinate.  .  .  .  The 
warfare  in  which  Europe  was  perpetually  plunged  re- 
tarded this  development  for  ages  ;  but  it  steadily  and 
gradually  prevailed,  working  from  the  eighth  to  the 
eleventh  century  like  a  seed  in  the  ground,  showing 
little  signs  of  life,  but  still,  if  carefully  examined, 
changing  essentially  every  day  and  every  hour :  at  last, 
in  the  tvvelfth  century,  the  blade  appears  above  the 
black  earth ;  in  the  thirteenth,  the  plant  is  in  full 
leaf.  .  .  . 

The  art  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  the  foundation  of 
all  art,  —  nor  merely  the  foundation,  but  the  root  of  it; 
that  is  to  say,  succeeding  art  is  not  merely  built  upon 
it,  but  was  all  comprehended  in  it,  and  is  developed  out 
of  it.  Passing  this  great  century,  we  find  three  success- 
ive branches  developed  from   it,  in   each    of   the  three 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  LANDSCAPE  ART.      117 

following  centuries.  The  fourteenth  century  is  pre- 
eminently the  age  of  Thought,  the  fifteenth  the  age  of 
Drawing,  and  the  sixteenth  the  age  of  Painting.  .  .  . 

This,  then,  being  the  state  of  things  respecting  art  in 
general,  let  us  next  trace  the  career  of  landscape 
through  these  centuries. 

It  was  only  towards  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  cent- 
ury that  figure  painting  began  to  assume  so  perfect  a 
condition  as  to  require  some  elaborate  suggestion  of 
landscape  background.  Up  to  that  time,  if  any  natural 
object  had  to  be  represented,  it  was  done  in  an  entirely 
conventional  way,  as  you  see  it  upon  Greek  vases,  or  in 
a  Chinese  porcelain  pattern.  .  .  .  But  at  the  close  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  Giotto,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
fourteenth,  Arcogna,  sought,  for  the  first  time,  to  give 
some  resemblance  to  nature  in  their  backgrounds,  and 
introduced  behind  their  figures  pieces  of  true  landscape, 
formal  enough  still,  but  complete  in  intention,  having 
foregrounds  and  distances,  sky  and  water,  forests  and 
mountains,  carefully  delineated,  not  exactly  in  their 
true  colour,  but  yet  in  colour  approximating  to  the 
truth.  The  system  which  they  introduced  was  observed 
for  a  long  period  by  their  pupils,  and  may  be  thus 
briefly  described  :  the  sky  is  always  pure  blue,  paler  at 
the  horizon,  and  with  a  few  streaky  white  clouds  in  it;, 
the  ground  is  green  even  to  the  extreme  distance,  with 
brown  rocks  projecting  from  it ;  water  is  blue  streaked 
with  white.  The  trees  are  nearly  always  composed  of 
clusters  of  their  proper  leaves,  relieved  on  a  black  or 
dark  ground.  .  .  .  You  will  find  that  [the  conditions  of 


118  JOHN  HUSK IX. 

noble  conventionalism]  always  consist  in  stopping  short 
of  nature,  nut  in  falsifying  nature  ;  and  thus  in  Giotto's 
foliage  he  stops  short  of  the  quantity  of  leaves  on  the 
real  tree,  but  he  gives  you  the  form  of  the  leaves  repre- 
sented with  perfect  truth.  .  .  .  To  the  landscape  of 
Kaphael,  Leonardo,  and  Perugino,  the  advance  consists 
principally  in  two  great  steps  :  the  first,  that  distant 
objects  were  more  or  less  invested  with  a  blue   colour, 

—  the  second,  that  trees  were  no  longer  painted  with  a 
black  ground,  but  with  a  rich  dark  brown,  or  deep  green. 
From  Giotto's  old  age  to  the  youth  of  Iia])hael  the 
advance  in  and  knowledge  of  landscape  consisted  of  no 
more  than  these  two  simple  steps  ;  but  the  execution  of 
landscape  became  infinitely  more  perfect  and  elaborate. 
.  .  .  The  first  man  Avho  entirely  broke  through  the  con- 
ventionality of  his  time,  and  painted  pure  landscape, 
was  Masaccio,  but  he  died  too  young  to  effect  the  revo- 
lution of  which  his  genius  was  capable.  It  was  left  for 
other  men  to  accomplish,  namely,  for  Correggio  and 
Titian.  These  two  painters  were  the  first  who  relieved 
the  foregrounds  of  their  landscape  from  the  grotesque, 
quaint,  and  crowded  formalism  of  the  early  painters ; 
and  gave  a  close  approximation  to  the  forms  of  nature 
in  all  things,  retaining,  however,  thus  much  of  the  old 
system,  that  the  distances  were  for  the  most  part 
l)ainted  in  deep  ultramarine  blue,  the  foreground  in  rich 
green  and  brown.  .  .  . 

Now  you  see  there  remained  a  fourth  step  to  be  taken, 

—  the  doing  a^yay  with  conventionalism  altogether,-  so 
as  to  create  the  perfect  art  of  landscape  painting.     The 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  LANDSLWI'E  AliT.      119 

course  of  the  mind  of  Europe  was  to  do  this  ;  but  at  tlie 
very  inonieut  when  it  ought  to  liave  been  done,  the  art 
of  all  civilized  nations  was  pai'alyzed  at  once  by  the 
operation  of  the  poisonous  elements  of  infidelity  and 
classical  learning  together,  as  I  have  endeavored  to 
show  elsewhere.  In  this  paralysis,  like  a  soldier  shot 
as  he  is  just  gaining  an  eniinenee,  the  art  of  the  sevcr,- 
teenth  century  struggled  forward,  and  sank  upon  the 
spot  it  had  been  endeavoring  to  attain.  The  step  Avhieh 
should  have  freed  landscape  from  conventionalism  was 
actually  taken  by  Claude  and  Salvator  Rosa,  but  taken  iu 
a  state  of  palsy,  —  taken  so  as  to  lose  far  more  than 
was  gained.  .  .  . 

[The  Claiule  and  Salvator  landscape]  was,  however, 
received  with  avidity;  for  this  main  reason,  that  the 
architecture,  domestic  life  and  manners  of  the  period 
were  gradually  getting  niore  and  more  artificial  and  were 
approximating  to  that  horrible  and  lifeless  condition  in 
Avhich  you  find  them  just  before  the  outbreak  of  the 
French  llevolution. 

Now,  observe,  exactly  as  hoops,  and  starch,  and  false 
hair,  and  all  that  in  mind  and  heart  these  things  typify 
and  betray,  as  these,  I  say,  gained  upon  men,  there  was 
a  necessary  reaction  in  favor  of  the  natuval.  ]Men  had 
never  lived  so  utterly  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  nature 
before  ;  but  they  could  not  do  this  without  feeling  a 
strange  charm  in  that  Avhich  they  defied ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, we  find  this  reactionary  sentiment  expressing 
itself  in  a  base  school  of  what  was  called  imstoral 
poetry ;  that  is  to  say,  poetry  written  in  praise  of  the 


120  JOHN  nUSKIN. 

country,  by  men  who  lived  in  coffee-houses  and  on  the 
]\rall.  The  essence  of  pastoral  poetry  is  the  sense  of 
strange  delightfulness  in  grass,  which  is  occasionally 
felt  by  a  man  who  has  seldom  set  his  foot  on  it ;  it  is 
essentially  the  poetry  of  the  cockney,  and  for  the  most 
part  corresponds  in  its  aim  and  rank,  as  compared  with 
other  literature,  to  the  porcelain  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses on  a  chimney-piece,  as  compared  with  great 
works  of  sculpture.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  such  a  state  of  society  that  the  landscaj^e  of 
Claude,  Gaspar  Poussin,  and  Salvator  Rosa  attained  its 
reputation.  It  is  the  complete  expression  on  canvas 
of  the  spirit  of  the  time.  .  .  . 

It  was,  however,  altogether  impossible  that  this  state 
of  things  should  long  continue.  The  age  which  had 
buried  itself  in  formalism  grew  weary  at  last  of  the 
restraint,  and  the  approach  of  a  new  era  was  marked 
by  the  appearance,  and  the  enthusiastic  reception,  of 
writers  who  took  true  delight  in  those  wild  scenes  of 
nature  which  had  so  long  been  despised.  .  .   . 

Together  with  Scott  appeared  the  group  of  poets,  — 
Byron,  Wordsworth,  Keats,  Shelley,  and,  finally,  Tenny- 
son, —  diif ering  widely  in  moral  principles  and  spiritual 
temper,  but  all  agreeing,  more  or  less,  in  this  love  for 
natural  scenery.   .  .  . 

In  order  to  meet  this  new  feeling  for  nature,  there 
necessarily  arose  a  new  school  of  landscape  painting.  .  .  , 

Turner  was  the  first  man  who  presented  us  with  the 
type  of  perfect  landscape  art.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  come  here  to  tell  you  of  my  beliefs  or  my 


THE  DIJVELOPMEXT  OF  LANDSCAPE  ART.      121 

conjectures :  I  came  to  tell  you  the  truth  -which  I 
have  given  fifteen  years  of  my  life  to  ascertain,  that 
this  man,  this  Turner,  of  Avhom  you  have  known  so 
little  while  he  was  living  among  you,  will  one  day 
take  his  place  beside  Shakspeare  and  Verulam,  in  the 
annals  of  the  light  of  England. 

By  Shakspeare,  humanity  was  unsealed  to  you  ;  by 
Verulam,  the  ^--rmci^^Zes  of  nature;  and  by  Turner,  her 
aspect.  All  these  were  sent  to  unlock  one  of  the  gates 
of  light,  and  to  unlock  it  for  the  first  time.  But  of  all 
the  three,  though  not  the  greatest,  Turner  was  the  most 
unprecedented  in  his  work.  Bacon  did  what  Aristotle 
had  attempted  ;  Shakspeare  did  perfectly  Avhat  ^schylus 
did  partially  ;  but  none  before  Turner  had  lifted  the 
veil  from  the  face  of  nature  ;  tlie  majesty  of  the  hills 
and  forests  had  received  no  interpretation,  and  the 
clouds  passed  unrecorded  from  the  fall  of  the  heaven 
which  they  adorned,  and  of  the  earth  to  which  they 
ministered. — Lectures  on  Ai'chitectxt7-e  and  Fainting, 
lect.  iii. 


122  JOHN  EUSKIN. 


THE    SACRED   COLOUR. 

If  you  want  to  colour  beautifully,  colour  as  best 
pleases  yourself  at  quiet  times,  not  so  as  to  catch  the 
eye,  nor  to  look  as  if  it  were  clever  or  difficult  to  colour 
in  that  way,  but  so  that  the  colour  may  be  pleasant  to 
you  when  you  are  happy,  or  thoughtful.  Look  much 
at  the  morning  and  evening  sky,  and  much  at  simple 
flowers,  —  dog-roses,  wood  hyacinths,  violets,  poppies, 
thistles,  heather,  and  such  like — as  Nature  arranges 
them  in  the  woods  and  fields.  If  ever  any  scientific 
person  tells  you  that  two  colours  are  "  discordant,"  make 
a  note  of  the  two  colours  and  put  them  together  when- 
ever you  can.  I  have  actually  heard  people  say  that 
blue  and  green  were  discordant ;  the  two  colours  which 
Nature  seems  to  intend  never  to  be  separated,  and  never 
to  be  felt  in  either  of  them  in  its  full  beautv  without 
the  other  !  —  a  peacock's  neck,  or  a  blue  sky  through 
green  leaves,  or  a  blue  wave  with  green  lights  through 
it,  being  precisely  the  loveliest  things,  next  to  clouds  at 
sunrise,  in  this  coloured  world  of  ours.  If  you  have  a 
good  eye  for  colours,  you  will  soon  find  out  how  con- 
stantly Nature  puts  purple  and  green  together,  purple 
and  scarlet,  green  and  blue,  yellow  and  neutral  gray, 
and  the  like  ;  and  how  she  strikes  these  colour-concords 
for  general  tones,  and  then  works  into  them  with 
innumerable  subordinate  ones ;  and  you  will  gradually 


THE  SACRED   COLOUR.  123 

come  to  like  what  she  does,  and  find  out  new  and 
beautiful  chords  of  colour  in  her  work  every  day.  If 
you  enjoy  them,  depend  upon  it  you  will  paint  them  to  a 
certain  point  right:  or,  at  least,  if  you  do  not  enjoy 
them,  you  are  certain  to  paint  them  wrong.  If  colour 
does  not  give  you  intense  pleasure,  let  it  alone ;  depend 
upon  it,  you  are  only  tormenting  the  eyes  and  senses  of 
people  who  feel  colour,  whenever  you  touch  it ;  and  that 
is  unkind  and  improper.  —  Elements  of  Drawing,  letter  iii. 

The  fact  is,  we  none  of  us  enough  appreciate  the 
nobleness  and  sacredness  of  colour.  Nothing  is  more 
common  than  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  a  subordinate 
beauty,  —  nay,  even  as  the  mere  source  of  a  sensual 
pleasure.  .  .  . 

Such  expressions  are  used  for  the  most  part  in 
thoughtlessness  ;  and  if  the  speakers  would  only  take 
the  pains  to  imagine  what  the  world  and  their  own 
existence  would  become,  if  the  blue  were  taken  from  the 
sky,  and  the  gold  from  the  sunshine,  and  the  verdure 
from  the  leaves,  and  the  crimson  from  the  blood  which 
is  the  life  of  man,  the  flush  from  the  cheek,  the  dark- 
ness from  the  eye,  the  radiance  from  the  hair,  —  if  they 
could  but  see  for  an  instant,  white  human  creatures 
living  in  a  white  world,  —  they  would  soon  feel  what 
they  owe  to  colour.  The  fact  is,  that,  of  all  God's  gifts 
to  the  sight  of  man,  colour  is  the  holiest,  the  most 
divine,  the  most  solemn.  We  speak  rashly  of  gay 
colour,  and  sad  colour,  for  colour  cannot  at  once  be 
good  and  gay.     All  good  colour  is  in  some  degree  pen- 


124  JOHN  RUSEIN. 

sive,  the  loveliest  is  melancholy,  and  the  purest  and 
most  thoughtful  minds  are  those  which  love  colour  the 
most. 

I  know  that  this  will  sound  strange  in  many  ears,  and 
will  be  especially  startling  to  those  who  have  considered 
the  subject  chiefly  with  reference  to  painting ;  for  the 
great  Venetian  schools  of  colour  are  not  usually  under- 
stood to  be  either  pure  or  pensive,  and  the  idea  of  its  pre- 
eminence is  associated  in  nearly  every  mind  with  the 
coarseness  of  Rubens,  and  the  sensualities  of  Correggio 
and  Titian.  But  a  more  comparative  view  of  art  will 
soon  correct  this  impression.  It  will  be  discovered,  in 
the  first  place,  that  the  more  faithful  and  earnest  the 
religion  of  the  painter,  the  more  pure  and  prevalent  is 
the  system  of  his  colour.  It  will  be  found  in  the  second 
place,  that  wherever  colour  becomes  a  primal  intention 
with  a  painter  otherwise  mean  and  sensual,  it  instantly 
elevates  him,  and  becomes  the  one  sacred  and  saving 
element  in  his  work.  The  very  depth  of  the  stoop  to 
which  the  Venetian  painters  and  Rubens  sometimes 
condescend,  is  a  consequence  of  their  feeling  confidence 
in  the  power  of  their  colour  to  keep  them  from  falling. 
They  hold  on  by  it,  as  by  a  chain  let  down  from  heaven, 
with  one  hand,  though  they  may  sometimes  seem  to  gather 
dust  and  ashes  with  the  other.  And,  in  the  last  place, 
it  will  be  found  that  so  surely  as  a  painter  is  irre- 
ligious, thoughtless,  or  obscene  in  disposition,  so  surely 
is  his  colouring  cold,  gloomy,  and  valueless.  The  oppo- 
site poles  of  art  in  this  respect  are  Fra  Angelico  and 
Salvator  Rosa ;  of  whom  the  one  was  a  man  who  smiled 


THE  SACRED   COLOUR.  125 

seldom,  wept  often,  prayed  constantly,  and  never 
harbored  an  impure  thought.  His  pictures  are  simply 
so  many  pieces  of  jewelry,  the  colours  of  the  dra])eries 
being  perfectly  pure,  as  various  as  those  of  a  painted 
window,  chastened  only  by  paleness,  and  relieved  upon 
a  gold  ground.  Salvator  was  a  dissipated  jester  and 
satirist,  a  man  Avho  spent  his  life  in  masking  and 
revelry.  But  his  pictures  are  full  of  horror,  and  their 
colour  is  for  the  most  part  gloomy  gray.  Truly  it  would 
seem  as  if  art  had  so  much  of  eternity  in  it,  that  it 
must  take  its  dye  from  the  close  rather  than  the  course 
of  life  :  —  "  In  such  laughter  the  heart  .of  man  is  sorrow- 
ful, and  the  end  of  that  mirth  is  heaviness."  .  .  . 

Nor  does  it  seem  difficult  to  discern  a  noble  reason 
for  this  universal  law.  In  that  heavenly  circle  which 
binds  the  statutes  of  colour  upon  the  front  of  the  sky, 
when  it  became  the  sign  of  the  covenant  of  peace,  the 
pure  hues  of  divided  light  were  sanctified  to  the  human 
heart  forever  ;  nor  this,  it  would  seem,  by  mere  arbi- 
trary appointment,  but  in  consequence  of  the  fore- 
ordained and  marvellous  constitution  of  those  hues  into 
a  sevenfold,  or,  more  strictly  still,  a  threefold  order, 
typical  of  the  Divine  nature  itself.  —  Stones  of  Venice, 
vol.  ii.  chap.  v. 

Nature  herself  produces  all  her  loveliest  colours  in 
some  kind  of  solid  or  liquid  glass  or  crystal.  The  rain- 
bow is  painted  on  a  shower  of  melted  glass,  and  the 
colours  of  the  opal  are  produced  in  vitreous  flint  mixed 
with  water;  the  green  and  blue,   and  golden  or  amber 


126  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

brown  of  flowing  water  is  in  surface  glassy,  and  in 
motion,  "  spf.e?ididior  vitro."  And  the  loveliest  colours 
ever  granted  to  human  sight  —  those  of  morning  or 
evening  clouds  before  or  after  rain  —  are  produced  on 
minute  particles  of  finely  divided  water,  or  perhaps  some- 
times, ice.  But  more  than  this.  If  you  examine  with  a 
lens  some  of  the  richest  ,  colours  of  flowers,  as,  for 
instance,  those  of  the  gentian  or  dianthus,  you  will  find 
tlieir  texture  is  produced  by  a  crystalline  or  sugary  fi-ost- 
work  upon  them.  In  the  lychnis  of  the  high  Alps,  the 
red  and  white  have  a  kind  of  sugary  bloom,  as  rich  as  it 
is  delicate.  It  is  indescribable ;  but  if  you  can  fancy 
very  powdery  and  crystalline  snow  mixed  with  the 
softest  cream,  and  then  dashed  with  carmine,  it  may 
give  you  some  idea  of  the  look  of  it.  There  are  no 
colours,  either  in  the  nacre  of  shells,  or  the  plumes  of 
birds  and  insects,  which  are  so  pure  as  those  of  clouds, 
opal,  or  flowers  ;  but  the  force  of  purple  and  blue  in 
some  butterflies,  and  the  methods  of  clouding,  and 
strength  of  burnished  lustre,  in  plumage  like  the  pea- 
cock's, give  them  more  universal  interest.  .  .  . 

We  have  thus  in  nature,  chiefly  obtained  by  crystal- 
line conditions,  a  series  of  groups  of  entirely  delicious 
hues  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  best  signs  that  the  bodily 
system  is  in  a  healthy  state  when  we  can  see  these 
clearly  in  their  most  delicate  tints,  and  enjoy  them 
fully  and  simply,  with  the  kind  of  enjoyment  that 
children  have  in  eating  sweet  things.  I  shall  place  a 
])iece  of  rock  opal  on  the  table  in  your  working-room. 
If  on  fine  days  you  will  sometimes  dip  it  in  water,  take 


THE  SAVE  El)  COLOUR.  127 

it  into  sunshine,  and  examine  it  with  a  lens  of  moderate 
power,  you  may  always  test  your  progress  in  sensibility 
to  colour  by  the  degree  of  pleasure  that  it  gives  you.  .  .  . 

You  remember  I  told  you,  when  the  colourists  painted 
masses  or  projecting  spaces,  they,  aiming  always  at 
colour,  perceived  from  the  first  and  held  to  the  last  the 
fact  that  shadows,  though  of  course  darker  than  the 
lights  with  reference  to  which  they  are  shadows,  are  not, 
therefore,  necessarily  less  vigorous  colours,  but  perhaps 
more  vigorous.  Some  of  the  most  beautiful  blues  and 
purples  in  nature,  for  instance,  are  those  of  mountains 
in  shadow  against  amber  sky  ;  and  the  -darkness  of  the 
hollow  in  the  centre  of  a  wild  rose  is  one  glow  of  orange 
fire,  owing  to  the  quantity  of  its  yellow  stamens. 

Well,  the  Venetians  always  saw  this,  and  all  great 
colourists  see  it,  and  are  thus  separated  from  the  non- 
colourists  or  schools  of  mere  chiaroscuro,  not  by  differ- 
ence of  style  merely,  but  by  being  right  while  the  others 
are  wrong.  It  is  an  absolute  fact  that  shadows  are  as 
much  colours  as  lights  are ;  and  whoever  represents 
them  by  merely  the  subdued  or  darkened  tint  of  the 
light  represents  them  falsely.  I  particularly  want  you 
to  observe  that  this  is  no  matter  of  taste,  but  fact.  If 
you  are  especially  sober-minded,  you  may,  indeed,  choose 
sober  colours  where  Venetians  would  have  chosen  gay 
ones  ;  that  is  a  matter  of  taste  ;  you  may  think  it  proper 
for  a  hero  to  wear  a  dress  without  patterns  on  it,  rather 
than  an  embroidered  one  ;  that  is  similarly  a  matter  of 
taste  :  but,  though  you  may  also  think  it  would  be 
dignified  for  a  hero's  limbs  to  be  all  black,  or  brown,  on 


128  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

the  shaded  side  of  them,  yet,  if  you  are  using  colour  at 
all,  you  cannot  so  have  him  to  your  mind  except  by  false- 
hood ;  he  never,  under  any  circumstances,  could  be 
entirely  black  or  brown  on  one  side  of  him. 

In  this,  then,  the  Venetians  are  separate  from  other 
schools  by  rightness,  and  they  are  so  to  their  last  days. 
Venetian  painting  is  in  this  matter  always  right.  But 
also,  in  their  early  days,  the  colourists  are  separated  from 
other  schools  by  their  contentment  with  tranquil  cheer- 
fulness of  light ;  by  their  never  wanting  to  be  dazzled. 
None  of  their  lights  are  flashing  or  blinding;  they  are 
soft,  winning,  precious  ;  lights  of  pearl,  not  of  lime  : 
only,  you  know,  on  this  condition,  they  cannot  have  sun- 
shine :  their  day  is  the  day  of  Paradise  ;  they  need  no 
candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun,  in  their  cities  ;  and 
everything  is  seen  clear  as  through  crystal,  far  or  near. 

This  holds  to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Then 
they  begin  to  see  that  this,  beautiful  as  it  may  be,  is 
still  a  make-believe  light;  that  we  do  not  live  in  the  in- 
side of  a  pearl;  but  in  an  atmosphere  through  which  a 
burning  sun  shines  thwartedly,  and  over  which  a  sorrow- 
ful night  must  far  prevail.  And  then  the  chiaroscurists 
succeed  in  persuading  them  of  the  fact  that  there  is 
mystery  in  the  day  as  in  the  night,  and  show  them  how 
constantly  to  see  truly,  is  to  see  dimly.  And  also  they 
teach  them  the  brilliancy  of  light,  and  the  degree  in 
which  it  is  raised  from  the  darkness ;  and,  instead  of 
their  sweet  and  pearly  peace,  tempt  them  to  look  for 
the  strength  of  flame  and  coruscation  of  lightning,  and 
flash  of  sunshine  on  armour  and  on  points  of  spears. 


THE  SACRED   COLOUR.  129 

The  noble  painters  take  the  lesson  nobly,  alike  for 
gloom  or  flame.  Titian  with  deliberate  strength, 
Tintoret  with  stormy  passion,  read  it,  side  by  side. 
Titian  deepens  the  hues  of  his  Assumption,  as  of  his 
Entombment,  into  a  solemn  twilight;  Tintoret  involves 
his  earth  in  coils  of  volcanic  clo\id,  and  withdraws, 
through  circle  flaming  above  circle,  the  distant  liglit 
of  Paradise.  Both  of  them,  becoming  naturalist  and 
human,  add  the  veracity  of  Holbein's  intense  portraiture 
to  the  glow  and  the  dignity  they  had  themselves  inher- 
ited from  the  Masters  of  Peace :  at  the  same  moment 
another,  as  strong  as  they,  and  in  pure  felicity  of  art- 
faculty,  even  greater  than  they,  but  trained  in  a  lower 
school,  —  Velasquez,  —  produced  the  miracles  of  colour 
and  shadow-painting,  which  made  Reynolds  say  of  him, 
''  What  we  all  do  with  labour,  he  does  with  ease ;  "  and 
one  more,  Correggio,  uniting  the  sensual  element  of  the 
Greek  schools  with  their  gloom,  and  their  light  with 
their  beauty,  and  all  these  with  the  Lombardic  colour, 
became,  as  since  I  think  it  has  been  admitted  without 
question,  the  captain  of  the  painter's  art  as  such. 
Other  men  have  nobler  or  more  numerous  gifts,  but  as 
a  painter,  master  of  the  art  of  laying  colour  so  as  to  be 
lovely,  Correggio  is  alone. 

I  said  the  noble  men  learnt  their  lesson  nobly. 
The  base  men  also,  and  necessarily,  learn  it  basely. 
The  great  men  rise  from  colour  to  sunlight.  The  base 
ones  fall  from  colour  tn  candlelight.  To-day,  "  7io?i 
ragioniam  di  loi;'''  but  let  us  see  what  this  great  change 
which  perfects  the  art  of  painting  mainly  consists  in, 


130  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

and  means.  For  though  we  are  only  at  present  speak- 
ing of  technical  matters,  every  one  of  them,  I  can 
scarcely  too  often  repeat,  is  the  outcome  and  sign  of  a 
mental  character,  and  you  can  only  understand  the  folds 
of  the  veil,  by  those  of  the  form  it  veils. 

The  complete  painters,  we  find,  have  brought  dimness 
and  mystery  into  their  method  of  colouring.  That 
means  that  the  world  all  round  them  has  resolved  to 
dream,  or  to  believe,  no  more ;  but  to  know,  and  to  see. 
And  instantly  all  knowledge  and  sight  are  given,  no 
more  as  in  the  Gothic  times,  through  a  window  of  glass, 
brightly,  but  as  through  a  telescope-glass,  darkly. 
Your  cathedral  window  shut  you  from  the  true  sky,  and 
illumined  you  with  a  vision ;  your  telescope  leads  you 
to  the  sky,  but  darkens  its  light,  and  reveals  nebula 
beyond  nebula,  far  and  farther,  and  to  no  conceivable 
farthest  —  unresolvable.  That  is  what  the  mystery 
means.  —  Lectures  on  Art,  sees.  173-179. 


TUE  CONDITIONS   OF  ART.  161 


THE   CONDITIONS    OF  ART. 

The  changes  in  the  state  of  this  country  are  now  so 
rapid,  that  it  would  be  wholly  absurd  to  endeavor  to  lay 
down  laws  of  art  education  for  it  under  its  present 
aspect  and  circumstances ;  and  therefore  I  must  neces- 
sarily ask,  how  much  of  it  do  you  seriously  intend  Avith- 
in  the  next  fifty  years  to  be  coalpit,  bricktield,  or 
quarry  ?  For  the  sake  of  distinctness  of  conclusion,  I 
will  suppose  your  success  absolute  :  that  from  shore  to 
shore  the  whole  of  the  island  is  to  be  set  as  thick  with 
chimneys  as  the  masts  stand  in  the  docks  of  Liverpool : 
that  there  shall  be  no  meadows  in  it ;  no  trees ;  no 
gardens ;  only  a  little  corn  grown  upon  the  housetops, 
reaped  and  threshed  by  steam :  that  you  do  not  leave 
even  room  for  roads,  but  travel  either  over  the  roofs  of 
your  mills,  on  viaducts  ;  or  under  their  floors,  in  tunnels  : 
that,  the  smoke  having  rendered  the  light  of  the  sun  un- 
serviceable, you  work  always  by  the  light  of  your  own 
gas :  that  no  acre  of  English  ground  shall  be  without  its 
shaft  and  its  engine  ;  and,  therefore,  no  spot  of  English 
ground  left,  on  which  it  shall  be  possible  to  stand,  with- 
out a  definite  and  calculable  chance  of  being  blown  off 
it,  at  any  moment,  into  small  pieces. 

Under  these  circumstances  (if  this  is  to  be  the  future 
of  England),  no  designing  or  any  other  development  of 
beautiful  art  will  be  possible.     Do  not  vex  your  minds, 


132  jonx  EUsKjy. 

nor  waste  your  money  with  any  thought  or  effort  in  the 
matter.  Beautiful  art  can  only  be  produced  by  people 
who  have  beautiful  things  around  them,  and  leisure  to 
look  at  them;  and  unless  you  provide  some  elements  of 
beauty  for  your  workmen  to  be  surrounded  by,  you  will 
find  that  no  elements  of  beauty  can  be  invented  by 
them. 

I  was  struck  forcibly  by  the  bearing  of  this  great  fact 
upon  our  modern  efforts  at  ornamentation,  in  an  after- 
noon walk  last  week,  in  the  suburbs  of  one  of  our  large 
manufacturing  towns.  I  was  thinking  of  the  difference 
in  the  effect  in  the  designer's  mind,  between  the  scene 
which  I  then  came  upon,  and  the  scene  which  would 
have  presented  itself  to  the  eyes  of  any  designer  of  the 
middle  ages  when  he  left  his  workshop.  Just  outside 
the  town  I  came  upon  an  old  English  cottage,  or  mansion, 
I  hardly  know  which  to  call  it,  set  close  under  the  hill, 
and  beside  tlie  river,  perhaps  built  somewhere  in  the 
Charles's  times,  with  mullioned  windows  and  a  low 
arched  porch ;  round  which,  in  the  little  triangular 
garden,  one  can  imagine  the  family  as  they  used  to  sit 
in  old  summer  times,  the  ripple  of  the  river  heard 
faintly  through  the  sweet-brier  hedge,  and  the  sheep  on 
the  far-off  wolds  shining  in  the  evening  twilight.  There, 
uninhabited  for  many  and  many  a  year,  it  had  been  left 
in  unregarded  havoc  of  ruin  ;  the  garden-gate  still  swung 
loose  to  its  latch;  the  garden,  blighted  utterly  into  a 
field  of  ashes,  not  even  a  weed  taking  root  there  ;  the 
roof  torn  into  shapeless  rents;  the  shutters  hanging 
about  the  windows  in  rags  of  rotten  wood ;  before  its 


THE   COMJITIONS    OF  ART.  133 

gate,  the  stream  wliich  had  gladdened  it  now  soaking 
slowly  by,  black  as  ebony,  and  thick  with  curdling 
slum;  the  bank  above  it  trodden  into  unctuous  sooty 
slime  :  far  in  front  of  it,  between  it  and  the  old  hills, 
the  furnaces  of  the  city  foaming  forth  perpetual  plague 
of  sulphurous  darkness;  the  volumes  of  their  storm 
clouds  coiling  low  over  a  waste  of  grassless  fields,  fenced 
from  each  other,  not  by  hedges,  but  by  slabs  of  square 
stone,  like  gravestones,  riveted  together  with  iron. 

That  was  the  scene  for  the  designer's  contemplation 
in  his  afternoon  walk  at  Eochdale.  Now  fancy  what 
was  the  scene  which  presented  itself,-  in  his  afternoon 
walk,  to  a  designer  of  the  Gothic  school  of  Pisa  —  Nino 
Pisano,  or  any  of  his  men. 

On  each  side  of  a  bright  river  he  saw  rise  a  line  of 
brighter  palaces,  arched  and  pillared,  and  inlaid  with 
deep  red  porphyr}^,  and  with  serpentine;  along  their 
quays  before  their  gates  were  riding  troops  of  knights, 
noble  in  face  and  form,  dazzling  in  crest  and  shield; 
horse  and  man  one  labyrinth  of  quaint  color  and  gleam- 
ing light  —  the  purple,  and  silver,  and  scarlet  fringes 
flowing  over  the  strong  limbs  and  clashing  mail,  like 
sea-waves  over  rocks  at  sunset.  Opening  on  each  side 
from  the  river  were  gardens,  courts,  and  cloisters ;  long 
succession  of  white  pillars  among  wreaths  of  vine ; 
leaping  of  fountains  through  buds  of  pomegranate  and 
orange  :  and  still  along  the  garden-paths,  and  under  and 
through  the  crimson  of  the  pomegranate  shadows, 
moving  slowly,  groups  of  the  fairest  women  that  Italy 
ever  saw  —  fairest  because  purest  and   thoughtfullest ; 


134  JOHN  E  USE  IN. 

trained  in  all  high  knowledge,  as  in  all  courteous  art  — 
in  dance,  in  song,  in  sweet  wit,  in  lofty  learning,  in 
loftier  courage,  in  loftiest  love  —  able  alike  to  cheer,  to 
enchant,  or  save,  the  souls  of  men.  Above  all  this 
scenery  of  perfect  human  life,  rose  dome  and  bell-tower 
burning  with  white  alabaster  and  gold  :  beyond  dome 
and  bell-tower  the  slopes  of  mighty  hills  hoary  with 
olive ;  far  in  the  north,  above  a  purple  sea  of  peaks  of 
solemn  Apennine,  the  clear,  sharp-cloven  Carrara  mount- 
ains sent  up  their  steadfast  flames  of  marble  summit 
into  amber  sky ;  the  great  sea  itself,  scorching  with 
expanse  of  light,  stretching  from  their  feet  to  the 
Gorgonian  isles ;  and  over  all  these,  ever  present,  near 
or  far  —  seen  through  the  leaves  of  vine,  or  imaged  with 
all  its  march  of  clouds  in  the  Arno's  stream,  or  set  with 
its  depth  of  blue  close  against  the  golden  hair  and 
burning  cheek  of  lady  and  knight,  —  that  untroubled 
and  sacred  sky,  which  was  to  all  men,  in  those  days  of 
innocent  faith,  indeed  the  unquestioned  abode  of  spirits, 
as  the  earth  was  of  men  ;  and  which  opened  straight 
through  its  gates  of  cloud  and  veils  of  dew  into  the 
awfulness  of  the  eternal  world  ;  —  a  heaven  in  which 
every  cloud  that  passed  was  literally  the  chariot  of  an 
angel,  and  every  ray  of  its  Evening  and  Morning  streamed 
from  the  throne  of  God. 

What  think  you  of  that  for  a  school  of  design  ? 

I  do  not  bring  this  contrast  before  you  as  a  ground  of 
hopelessness  in  our  task ;  neither  do  I  look  for  any 
possible  renovation  of  the  Republic  of  Pisa,  at  Bradford, 
in  the  nineteenth  century  ;  but  I  put  it  before  you  in 


THE  CONDITIONS   OF  ART.  135 

ordev  that  you  may  be  aware  precisely  of  the  kind  of 
difficulty  you  have  to  meet,  and  may  then  consider  with 
yourselves  how  far  you  can  meet  it.  To  men  surrounded 
by  the  depressing  and  monotonous  circumstances  of 
English  manufacturing  life,  depend  upon  it,  design  is 
simply  impossible.  This  is  the  most  distinct  of  all  the 
experiences  I  have  had  in  dealing  Avith  the  modern 
workman.  He  is  intelligent  and  ingenious  in  the  high- 
est degree —  subtle  in  touch  and  keen  in  sight:  but  he 
is,  generally  speaking,  wholly  destitute  of  designing 
power.  And  if  you  want  to  give  him  the  power,  you 
must  give  him  the  materials,  and  put-him  in  the  circum- 
stances for  it.  Design  is  not  the  offspring  of  idle 
fancy  :  it  is  the  studied  result  of  accumulative  observa- 
tion and  delightful  habit.  Without  observation  and 
experience;  no  design — without  peace  and  pleasurable- 
ness  in  occupation,  no  design  —  and  all  the  lecturings 
and  teachings,  and  prizes,  and  principles  of  art,  in  the 
world,  are  of  no  use,  so  long  as  you  don't  surround  your 
men  with  happy  influences  and  beautiful  things.  It  is 
impossible  for  them  to  have  right  ideas  about  colour, 
unless  they  see  the  lovely  colours  of  nature  unspoiled  ; 
impossible  for  them  to  supply  beautiful  incident  and 
action  in  their  ornament,  unless  they  see  beautiful 
incident  and  action  in  the  world  about  them.  Inform 
their  minds,  refine  their  habits,  and  you  form  and  refine 
their  designs ;  but  keep  them  illiterate,  uncomfortable, 
and  in  the  midst  of  unbeautiful  things,  and  whatever 
they  do  will  still  be  spurious,  vulgar,  and  vahieless. — 
The  Two  Paths,  sees.  89-92. 


136  JOHN   RUSK  IN. 

Let  me  now  finally,  and  with  all  distinctness  possible 
to  me,  state  to  you  the  main  business  of  all  Art;  —  its 
service  in  the  actual  uses  of  daily  life. 

You  ai'e  surprised,  perhaps,  to  hear  me  call  this  its 
main  business.  That  is  indeed  so,  however.  The  giving 
brightness  to  picture  is  much,  but  the  giving  brightness 
to  life  more.  And  remember,  were  it  as  patterns  only, 
you  cannot,  without  the  realities,  have  the  pictures. 
You  cannot  have  a  landscape  by  Turner,  Avithout  a 
country  for  him  to  paint ;  you  cannot  have  a  portrait  by 
Titian,  without  a  man  to  be  pourtrayed.  I  need  not 
prove  that  to  you,  I  suppose,  in  these  short  terms ;  but 
in  the  outcome  I  can  get  no  soul  to  believe  that  the 
beginning  of  art  is  in  getting  our  country  clean  and  our 
people  beautiful.  I  have  been  ten  years  trying  to  get 
this  very  plain  certainty  —  I  do  not  say  believed  —  but 
even  thought  of,  as  anything  but  a  monstrous  proposi- 
tion. To  get  your  country  clean,  and  your  people 
lovel}^ ;  —  I  assure  you  that  is  a  necessary  work  of  art 
to  begin  with  !  There  has  indeed  been  art  in  countries 
where  people  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  God,  but  never  in 
countries  where  they  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  the  devil. 
There  has  indeed  been  art  where  the  people  were  not  at 
all  lovely,  —  where  even  their  lips  were  thick  —  and  their 
skins  black,  because  the  sun  had  looked  upon  them ; 
but  never  in  a  country  where  the  people  were  pale  with 
miserable  toil  and  deadly  shade,  and  where  the  lips  of 
youth,  instead  of  being  full  with  blood,  were  pinched 
by  famine,  or  warped  with  poison.  And  now,  therefore, 
note  this  well,  the  gist  of  all  these  long  prefatory  talks. 


THE  CONDITIONS   OF  ART.  137 

I  said  that  the  two  great  moral  instincts  were  those  of 
Order  and  Kindness.  Now,  all  the  arts  are  founded  on 
agriculture  by  the  hand,  and  on  the  graces,  and  kindness 
of  feeding,  and  dressing,  and  lodging  your  people. 
Greek  art  begins  in  the  gardens  of  Alcinous  —  perfect 
order,  leeks  in  beds,  and  fountains  in  pipes.  And  Chris- 
tian art,  as  it  arose  out  of  chivalry,  was  only  possible  so 
far  as  chivalry  compelled  both  kings  and  knights  to 
care  for  the  right  personal  training  of  their  people ;  it 
perished  utterly  when  those  kings  and  knights  became 
dijuoSofjoi,  devourers  of  the  people.  And  it  will  become 
possible  again  only,  when,  literally,  the  sword  is  beaten 
into  the  ploughshare,  when  your  St.  George  of  England 
shall  justify  his  name,  and  Christian  art  shall  be  known, 
as  its  Master  was,  in  breaking  of  bread.  ... 

Now,  I  have  given  you  my  message,  containing,  as  I 
know,  offence  enough,  and  itself,  it  may  seem  to  many, 
unnecessary  enough.  But  just  in  proportion  t'>  its 
apparent  non-necessity,  and  to  its  certain  olfence,  was 
its  real  need,  and  my  real  duty  to  speak  it.  .  .  .  And 
therefore  these  are  the  things  that  I  have  first  and  last 
to  tell  3'ou  in  this  place :  —  that  the  line  arts  are  not  to 
be  learned  by  Locomotion,  but  by  making  the  homes  we 
live  in  lovely  and  by  staying  in  them  ; — that  the  fine 
arts  are  not  to  be  learned  by  Competition,  but  by  doing 
our  quiet  best  in  our  own  way  ;  —  that  the  fine  arts  are 
not  to  be  learned  by  Exhibition,  but  by  doing  what  is 
right  and  making  what  is  honest,  whether  it  be  exhib- 
ited or  not ;  —  and,  for  the  sum  of  all,  that  men  must 
paint  and  build  neither  for  pride  nor  for  money,  but  for 


138  JOHN  EUSKIN. 

love ;  for  love  of  their  art,  for  love  of  their  neighbour, 
and  whatever  better  love  may  be  than  these,  founded  on 
these.  .  .  .  Begin  with  wooden  floors ;  the  tessellated 
ones  will  take  care  of  themselves ;  begin  with  thatching 
roofs,  and  you  shall  end  by  splendidly  vaulting  them ; 
begin  by  taking  care  that  no  old  eyes  fail  over  their 
Bibles,  nor  young  ones  over  their  needles,  for  want  of 
rushlight,  and  then  you  may  have  whatever  true  good  is 
to  be  got  out  of  coloured  glass  or  wax  candles.  And  in 
thus  putting  the  arts  to  universal  use,  you  will  find  also 
their  universal  inspiration,  their  universal  benediction. 
—  Lectures  on  Art,  sees.  116,  124. 


RUSKIN  THE  STUDENT  OF  SOCIOLOGY. 


"  Government  and  Co-operation  are  in  all  things  and  eternally  the 
Laws  of  Life.  Anarchy  and  Competition  eternally  and  in  all  things 
the  Laws  of  Death."  — Modern  Painters. 


PRELUDE. 

In  the  fifth  volume  of  Modevii  Painters,  Mr.  Ruskin  wrote 
this  sentence.  Stated  in  a  general  form,  it  escaped  notice  as  a 
truism :  applied  and  reiterated  throughout  his  later  writings, 
it  has  exjjosed  him  to  the  invective  and  ridicule  of  his  age. 
For  nearly  thirty  years,  he  has  stood  practically  alone  in  Eng- 
land. Alone,  but  for  one  man,  — the  rugged  prophet,  Thomas 
Carlyle,  whom  Ruskin  delights  to  call,  with  loving  reverence, 
his  "  Master."  Not  only  in  emotional  appeal  and  in  attacks 
on  social  corruption  does  Ruskin  reseml:)le  Carlyle.  There  is 
to  be  found  in  both  men  a  body  of  positive  teaching  almost 
identical  in  proposal  of  practical  methods  and  solutions. 
"  Past  and  Present"  is  the  best  commentary  on  "  Cnto  This 
Last." 

Dotibtless,  one  reason  for  the  antagonism  shown  to  Ruskin 
as  an  economist,  was  the  impossibilitj' of  classifying  him.  He 
bewildered  people.  The  English  public  understood  a  Tory : 
it  understood  a  Radical.  Ruskin  was  both  and  neither.  He 
called  himself  a  vehement  Tory  of  the  old  school :  jet  he 
criticised  the  wage-system,  which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the 
present  social  order,  like  a  Comnuinist.     He  denounced  liberty  : 


140  JOHN  RUSKIX. 

yet  lie  hated  oppression.  No  wonder  that  men  shook  their 
puzzled  heads,  and  bewailed  Rnskin's  passion  for  paradox. 

The  paradox  of  one  generation  is  the  truism  of  the  next. 
In  some  respects,  Mr.  Ruskin  still  remains  inexplicable  and 
unique.  Few  men  Avould  sympathize  with  his  dislike  of  steam- 
machinery,  or  with  other  details  of  his  theories.  Yet,  broadly 
speaking,  the  word  has  been  found  which  explains  and  recon- 
ciles his  seeming  contradictions.     That  word  is  Socialism. 

A.  Socialist,  in  the  cruder  sense,  Ruskin  is  not.  lie  dis- 
avows the  title  :  and  a  passage  such  as  that  on  page  176  shows 
how  moderate  and  conservative  a  position  he  takes  towards 
the  inequalities  of  wealth.  Yet  a  Socialist  of  the  higher  and 
of  the  Christian  type  he  essentially  is,  for  in  the  theory  of 
Socialism  alone  can  be  found  the  harmony  for  which  he  pleads 
between  radical  and  conservative  elements  of  social  thouglit. 

On  Ruskin's  ideas  as  a  whole,  judgment  cannot  yet  be 
passed.  One  fact  is,  however,  certain.  As  regards  his  great 
central  thesis,  England  has  slowly  been  growing  towards  him. 
'♦  May  not  the  manufacture  of  Souls  of  a  good  quality  be 
worthy  our  attention  ?  "  asked  he,  thirty  years  ago  ;  and  politi- 
cal economists  scoffed  at  the  sentimental  thought  that  a  moral 
and  human  element  could  enter  as  factor  into  the  science  of 
economics.  To-day,  the  ground  has  changed  :  the  ^Manchester 
school,  with  its  mechanical  and  fixed  S3-stem,  based  on  uni- 
versal self-interest,  speaks  more  feebly :  most  thinkers  at  last 
agree  that  from  the  science  of  human  relations,  which  eco- 
nomics really  is,  the  human  elements  of  love,  of  honour,  of 
sacrifice  cannot  be  excluded  :  and  more  and  more  all  men  are 
coming  to  recognize  the  literal  and  absolute  truth,  in  finance 
as  in  morals,  of  the  noble  words  which  sum  up  Ruskin's 
teaching,  "  There  is  no  Wealth  but  Life." 


PBiyCIPLES  AAD  FACTS.  141 


PEINCIPLES   AND   FACTS. 

DEFINITIONS. 

As  domestic  economy  regulates  the  acts  and  habits  of 
a  household,  political  economy  regulates  those  of  a 
society  or  State,  with  reference  to  the  means  of  its 
maintenance. 

Political  economy  is  neither  an  art  nor  a  science ;  but 
a  system  of  conduct  and  legislature,  founded  on  the 
sciences,  directing  the  arts,  and  impossible,  except  under 
certain  conditions  of  moral  culture.  .  .  . 

By  the  "  maintenance  "  of  a  State  is  to  be  understood 
the  support  of  its  population  in  healthy  and  happy  life ; 
and  the  increase  of  their  numbers,  so  far  as  that  increase 
is  consistent  with  their  happiness.  It  is  not  the  object 
of  political  economy  to  increase  the  numbers  of  a  nation 
at  the  cost  of  common  health  or  comfort ;  nor  to  increase 
indefinitely  the  comfort  of  individuals,  by  sacrifice  of 
surrounding  lives,  or  possibilities  of  life. 

The  assumption  which  lies  at  the  root  of  nearly  all 
erroneous  reasoning  on  political  economy,  —  namely, 
that  its  object  is  to  accumulate  money  or  exchangeable 
property,  —  may  be  shown  in  a  few  words  to  be  without 
foundation.  For  no  economist  would  admit  national 
economy  to  be  legitimate  which  proposed  to  itself  only 
the  building  of  a  pyramid  of  gold.     He  would  declare 


142  JOHN   RUSKIN. 

the  gold  to  be  wasted,  were  it  to  remaiu  in  the  monu- 
mental form,  and  would  say  it  ought  to  be  employed. 
But  to  what  end  ?  Either  it  must  be  used  only  to  gain 
more  gold,  and  build  a  larger  pyramid,  or  for  some  i)ur- 
pose  other  than  the  gaining  of  gold.  And  this  other 
purpose,  however  at  first  apprehended,  will  be  found  to 
resolve  itself  finally  into  the  service  of  man ;  —  that  is 
to  say,  the  extension,  defence,  or  comfort  of  his  life. 
The  golden  pyramid  may  perhaps  be  providently  built, 
perhaps  improvidently ;  but  the  wisdom  or  folly  of 
the  accumulation  can  only  be  determined  by  our  having 
first  clearly  stated  the  aim  of  all  economy,  namely,  the 
extension  of  life. 

If  the  accumulation  of  money,  or  of  exchangeable 
property,  were  a  certain  means  of  extending  existence, 
it  would  be  useless,  in  discussing  economical  questions, 
to  fix  our  attention  upon  the  more  distant  object  —  life 
—  instead  of  the  immediate  one  —  money.  But  it  is  not 
so.  Money  may  sometimes  be  accumulated  at  the  cost 
of  life,  or  by  limitations  of  it ;  that  is  to  say,  either  by 
hastening  the  deaths  of  men,  or  preventing  their  births. 
It  is  therefore  necessary  to  keep  clearly  in  view  the 
ultimate  object  of  economy;  and  to  determine  the  expe- 
diency of  minor  operations  with  reference  to  that 
ulterior  end. 

It  has  been  just  stated  that  the  object  of  political 
economy  is  the  continuance  not  only  of  life,  but  of 
healthy  and  happy  life.  But  all  true  happiness  is  both 
a  consequence  and  cause  of  life  :  it  is  a  sign  of  its  vigor, 
and  source  of  its  continuance.     All  true  suffering  is  in 


PRINCIPLES  AND  FACTS.  143 

like  manner  a  consequence  and  cause  of  death.  I  shall 
therefore,  in  future,  use  the  word  "  Life  "  singly  :  but  let 
it  be  understood  to  include  in  its  signification  the  happi- 
ness and  power  of  the  entire  human  nature,  body  and  soul. 
That  human  nature,  as  its  Creator  made  it,  and  main- 
tains it  wherever  His  laws  are  observed,  is  entirely  \ 
harmonious,  l^o  physical  error  can  be  more  profound, 
no  moral  error  more  dangerous,  than  that  involved  in 
the  monkish  doctrine  of  the  opposition  of  body  to  soul. 
No  soul  can  be  perfect  in  an  imperfect  body :  no  body 
perfect  without  perfect  soul.  Every  right  action  and 
true  thought  sets  the  seal  of  its  beauty  on  person  and 
face ;  every  wrong  action  and  foul  thought,  its  seal  of 
distortion  ;  and  the  various  aspects  of  humanity  might 
be  read  as  plainly  as  a  })rinted  history,  were  it  not  that 
the  impressions  are  so  complex  that  it  must  always  in  j 
some  cases  (and,  in  the  present  state  of  our  knowledge, 
in  all  cases)  be  impossible  to  decipher  them  completely. 
Nevertheless,  the  face  of  a  consistently  just,  and  of  a 
consistently  unjust  person,  may  always  be  rightly  dis- 
tinguished at  a  glance  ;  and  if  the  qualities  are  contin- 
ued by  descent  through  a  generation  or  two,  there  arises 
a  complete  distinction  of  race.  Both  moral  and  phys- 
ical qualities  are  communicated  by  descent,  far  more 
than  they  can  be  developed  by  education  (though  both 
may  be  destroyed  by  want  of  education)  ;  and  there  is  as 
yet  no  ascertained  limit  to  the  nobleness  of  person  and 
mind  which  the  human  creature  may  attain,  by  perse- 
vering observance  of  the  laws  of  God  respecting  its  birth 
and  training. 


144  JOIIX   BUSKIN. 

We  must  therefore  yet  farther  define  the  aim  of 
political  economy  to  be  "  The  multiplication  of  human 
life  at  the  highest  standard."  It  might  at  first  seem 
questionable  whether  we  should  endeavour  to  maintain 
a  small  number  of  persons  of  the  highest  type  of  beauty 
and  intelligence,  or  a  larger  number  of  an  inferior  class. 
But  I  shall  be  able  to  show  in  the  sequel,  that  the  way 
to  maintain  the  largest  number  is  first  to  aim  at  the 
higliest  standard.  Determine  the  noblest  type  of  man, 
and  aim  simply  at  maintaining  the  largest  possible 
number  of  persons  of  that  class,  and  it  will  be  found 
that  the  largest  possible  number  of  every  healthy  sub- 
ordinate class  must  necessarily  be  produced  also. 

The  perfect  type  of  manhood,  as  just  stated,  involves 
the  perfections  (whatever  we  may  hereafter  determine 
these  to  be)  of  his  body,  affections,  and  intelligence. 
The  material  things,  therefore,  which  it  is  the  object  of 
political  economy  to  produce  and  use  (or  accumulate 
for  use),  are  things  which  serve  either  to  sustain  and 
comfort  the  body,  or  exercise  rightly  the  affections  and 
form  the  intelligence.  Whatever  truly  serves  either  of 
these  purposes  is  "  useful  "  to  man,  wholesome,  healthful, 
helpful,  or  holy.  By  seeking  such  things,  man  prolongs 
and  increases  his  life  upon  the  earth. 

On  the  other  hand,  whatever  does  not  serve  either  of 
these  purposes  —  much  more  whatever  counteracts  them 
—  is  in  like  manner  useless  to  man,  unwholesome,  un- 
helpful, or  unholy ;  and  by  seeking  such  things  man 
shortens  and  diminishes  his  life  upon  the  earth. 

And  neither  with  respect  to  things  useful  or  useless 


PRINCIPLES   AND   FACTS.  145 

can  man's  estimate  of  them  alter  their  nature.  Certain 
substances  being  good  for  his  food,  and  others  noxious 
to  him,  what  he  thinks  or  wishes  respecting  them  can 
neither  change,  nor  prevent,  their  power.  If  he  eats 
corn,  he  will  live  ;  if  nightshade,  he  will  die.  If  he  pro- 
duce or  make  good  and  beautiful  things,  they  will  Re- 
create him  (note  the  solemnity  and  Aveight  of  the 
word)  ;  if  bad  and  ugly  things,  they  will  "  corrupt,"  or 
"  break  in  pieces,"  —  that  is,  in  the  exact  degree  of 
their  power,  Kill  him.  For  every  hour  of  labour,  how- 
ever enthusiastic  or  well  intended,  which  he  spends  for 
that  which  is  not  bread,  so  much  possibility  of  life  is 
lost  to  him.  His  fancies,  likings,  beliefs,  however 
brilliant,  eager,  or  obstinate,  are  of  no  avail  if  they  are 
set  on  a  false  object.  Of  all  that  he  has  laboured  for, 
the  eternal  law  of  heaven  and  earth  measures  out  to  him 
for  reward,  to  the  utmost  atom,  that  part  which  he 
ought  to  have  laboured  for,  and  withdraws  from  him  (or 
enforces  on  him,  it  may  be),  inexorably,  that  part  which 
he  ought  not  to  have  laboured  for,  until,  on  his  summer 
threshing-iloor,  stands  his  heap  of  corn  ;  little  or  much, 
not  according  to  his  labour,  but  to  his  discretion.  No 
"commercial  arrangements,"  no  painting  of  surfaces,  nor 
alloying  of  substances,  will  avail  him  a  pennyweight. 
Nature  asks  of  him  calmly  and  inevitably,  What  have 
you  found,  or  formed  —  the  right  thing  or  the  wrong  ? 
By  the  right  thing  you  shall  live ;  by  the  wrong  you 
shall  die. 

To   thoughtless   persons    it    seems    otherwise.      The 
world  looks  to  them   as  if  they  could  cozen  it  out  of 


146  JOHN  EUSEIN. 

some  ways  and  means  of  life.  But  they  cannot  cozen- 
IT :  they  can  only  cozen  their  neighbours.  The  world 
is  not  to  be  cheated  of  a  grain ;  not  so  much  as  a 
breath  of  its  air  can  be  drawn  surreptitiously.  For 
every  piece  of  wise  work  done,  so  much  life  is  granted ; 
for  every  piece  of  foolish  work,  nothing ;  for  every 
piece  of  wicked  work,  so  much  death  is  allotted.  This 
is  as  sure  as  the  courses  of  day  and  night.  But  when 
the  means  of  life  are  once  produced,  men,  by  their 
various  struggles  and  industries  of  accumulation  or 
exchange,  may  variously  gather,  waste,  restrain,  or  dis- 
tribute them  ;  necessitating,  in  proportion  to  the  Avaste 
or  restraint,  accurately,  so  much  more  death.  The  rate 
and  range  of  additional  death  are  measured  by  the  rate 
and  range  of  waste  ;  and  are  inevitable  ;  —  the  only  ques- 
tion (determined  mostly  by  fraud  in  peace,  and  force  in 
war)  is,  Who  is  to  die,  and  how  ? 

Such  being  the  everlasting  law  of  human  existence, 
the  essential  work  of  the  political  economist  is  to  deter- 
mine what  are  in  reality  useful  or  life-giving  things, 
and  by  what  degrees  and  kinds  of  labour  they  are 
attainable  and  distributable.  —  Munera  Pulverls,  sees. 
1-11. 

ARRAIGNMENT. 

There  are  three  Material  things,  not  only  useful,  but 
essential  to  life.  No  one  "  knows  how  to  live  "  till  he 
has  got  them. 

These  are,  Pure  Air,  Water,  and  Earth. 

There  are  three  Immaterial  things,  not  only  useful, 


PRINCIPLES   AND  FACTS.  147 

but  essential  to  Life.  No  one  knows  Iioav  to  live  till  lie 
has  got  them  also. 

These  are,  Admiration,  Hope,  and  Love. 

Admiration,  the  power  of  discerning  and  taking  delight 
in  what  is  beautiful  in  visible  form,  and  lovely  in  hviman 
Character;  and,  necessarily,  striving  to  produce  what  is 
beautiful  in  form,  and  to  become  what  is  lovely  in  char- 
acter. 

Hope,  the  recognition,  by  true  Foresight,  of  better 
things  to  be  reached  hereafter,  whether  by  ourselves  or 
others ;  necessarily  issuing  in  the  straightforward  and 
undisappointable  eifort  to  advance, .  according  to  our 
proper  power,  the  gaining  of  them. 

Love,  both  of  family  and  neighbor,  faithful,  and 
satisfied. 

There  are  the  six  chiefly  useful  things  to  be  got  by 
Political  Economy,  when  it  has  become  a  Science.  I 
will  briefly  tell  you  what  modern  Political  Economy  — 
the  great  "  savoir  mourir  "  —  is  doing  Avith  them. 

The  first  three,  I  said,  are  Pure  Aii',  Water,  and 
Earth. 

Heaven  gives  you  the  main  elements  of  these.  You 
can  destroy  them  at  your  pleasure,  or  increase,  almost 
without  limit,  the  available  quantities  of  them. 

You  can  vitiate  the  air  by  your  manner  of  life,  and  of 
death,  to  any  extent.  You  might  easily  vitiate  it  so  as 
to  bring  such  a  pestilence  on  the  globe  as  would  end  all 
of  you.  .  .  .  But  everywhere,  and  all  day  long,  you  are 
vitiating  it  with  foul  chemical  exhalations  ;  and  the  hor- 
rible nests,  which  you  call  towns,  are  little  more  than 


148  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

laboratories  for  the  distillation  into  heaven  of  venomous 
smokes  and  smells.  .  .  . 

On  the  other  hand,  your  power  of  purifying  the  air, 
by  dealing  properly  and  swiftly  with  all  substances  in 
corruption ;  by  absolutely  forbidding  noxious  manufact- 
ures ;  and  by  planting  in  all  soils  the  trees  which  cleanse 
and  invigorate  earth  and  atmosphere,  —  is  literally  in- 
finite. You  might  make  every  breath  of  air  you  draw, 
food. 

Secondly,  your  power  over  the  rain  and  river-waters 
of  the  earth  is  infinite.  You  can  bring  rain  where  you 
will,  by  planting  wisely  and  tending  carefully;  —  drought, 
where  you  will,  by  ravage  of  woods  and  neglect  of  the 
soil.  You  might  have  the  rivers  of  England  as  pure  as 
the  crystal  of  the  rock  ;  — beautiful  in  falls,  in  lakes,  in 
living  pools  ;  —  so  full  of  fish  that  you  might  take  them 
out  with  your  hands  instead  of  nets.  Or  you  may  do 
always  as  you  have  done  now,  turn  every  river  of 
England  into  a  common  sewer,  so  that  you  cannot  so 
much  as  baptize  an  English  baby  but  with  filth,  unless 
you  hold  its  face  out  in  the  rain  ;  and  even  that  falls 
dirty. 

Then  for  the  third,  Earth,  —  meant  to  be  nourishing 
for  you,  and  blossoming  ...  as  far  as  your  scientitic 
hands  and  scientific  brains,  inventive  of  explosive  and 
deathful,  instead  of  blossoming  and  life-giving.  Dust,  can 
contrive,  you  have  turned  the  Mother  Earth,  Demeter, 
into  the  Avenger-Earth,  Tisiphone  —  with  the  voice  of 
your  brother's  blood  crying  out  of  it,  in  one  wild  har- 
mony round  all  its  murderous  sphere. 


PBIXCIPLES  AND   FACTS.  149 

That  is  what  you  have  done  for  the  Three  Material 
Useful  Things. 

Then  for  the  Three  Immaterial  Useful  Things.  For 
Admiration,  you  have  learned  contempt  and  conceit. 
There  is  no  lovely  tiling  ever  yet  done  by  mail  that  you 
care  for,  or  can  understand ;  but  you  are  persuaded  you 
are  able  to  do  much  finer  things  yourselves.  .  .  . 

Then,  secondly,  for  Hope.  You  have  not  so  much  spirit 
of  it  in  you  as  to  begin  any  plan  which  will  not  pay  for  ten 
years ;  nor  so  much  intelligence  of  it  in  you  (either 
politicians  or  workmen),  as  to  be  able  to  form  one  clear 
idea  of  what  you  would  like  your  country  to  become. 

Then,  thirdly,  for  Love.  You  were  ordered  by  the 
Founder  of  your  religion  to  love  your  neighbour  as 
yourselves. 

You  have  founded  an  entire  science  of  Political  Econ- 
omy, on  what  you  have  stated  to  be  the  constant  instinct 
of  man  —  the  desire  to  defraud  his  neighbor.  —  Fors 
Clavigera,  letter  v. 

WEALTH    AND    LIFE. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  flowing  of  streams  to  the  sea  as  a 
partial  image  of  the  action  of  wealth.  In  one  respect  it 
is  not  a  partial,  but  a  perfect  image.  The  popular 
economist  thinks  himself  wise  in  having  discovered  that 
Avealth,  or  the  forms  of  property  in  general,  must  go 
where  they  are  required ;  that  where  demand  is,  supply 
must  follow.  He  farther  declares  that  this  course  of 
demand  and  supply  cannot  be  forbidden  by  human  laws. 
Precisely  in  the  same  sense,  and  with  the  same  certainty, 


150  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

the  waters  of  the  world  go  where  they  are  required. 
Where  the  land  falls,  the  water  flows.  The  course  neither 
of  clouds  nor  rivers  can  be  forbidden  by  human  will. 
But  the  disposition  and  administration  of  them  can  be 
altered  by  human  forethought.  Whether  the  stream 
shall  be  a  curse  or  a  blessing,  depends  upon  man's  labour, 
and  administrating  intelligence.  For  centuries  after 
centuries,  great  districts  of  the  world,  rich  in  soil,  and 
favoured  in  climate,  have  lain  desert  under  the  rage  of 
their  own  rivers ;  nor  only  desert,  but  plague-struck. 
The  stream  which,  rightly  directed,  would  have  flowed 
in  soft  irrigation  from  field  to  field — would  have  purified 
the  air,  given  food  to  man  and  beast,  and  carried  their 
burdens  for  them  on  its  bosom  —  now  overwhelms  the 
plain  and  poisons  the  wind  ;  its  breath  pestilence,  and 
its  work  famine.  In  like  manner  this  wealth  "goes 
where  it  is  required."  No  human  laws  can  withstand 
its  flow.  They  can  only  guide  it :  but  this,  the  leading 
trench  and  limiting  mound  can  do  so  thoroughly,  that  it 
shall  become  water  of  life  —  the  riches  of  the  hand  of  wis- 
dom ;  or,  on  the  contrary,  by  leaving  it  to  its  own  lawless 
flow,  they  may  make  it,  what  it  has  been  too  often,  the  last 
and  deadliest  of  national  plagues  :  water  of  Marah  —  the 
water  which  feeds  the  roots  of  all  evil. —  Unto  This  Last,  iii. 

It  is  impossible  to  conclude,  of  any  given  mass  of 
acquired  wealth,  merely  by  the  fact  of  its  existence, 
whether  it  signifies  good  or  evil  to  the  nation  in  the 
midst  of  which  it  exists.  Its  real  value  depends  on  the 
moral  sign  attached  to  it,  just  as  sternly  as  that  of  a 


PRINCIPLES  AND   FACTS.  151 

mathematical  quantity  depends  on  the  algebraical  sign 
attached  to  it.  Any  given  accumulation  of  commercial 
wealth  may  be  indicative,  on  the  one  hand,  of  faithful 
industries,  progressive  energies,  and  productive  ingenui- 
ties ;  or,  on  the  other,  it  may  be  indicative  of  mortal 
luxury,  merciless  tyranny,  ruinous  chicane.  Some 
treasures  are  heavy  with  human  tears,  as  an  ill-stored 
harvest  with  untimely  rain  ;  and  some  gold  is  brighter 
in  sunshine  than  it  is  in  substance. 

And  these  are  not,  observe,  merely  moral  or  pathetic 
attributes  of  riches,  which  the  seeker  of  riches  may,  if 
he  chooses,  despise ;  they  are,  literally  and  sternly, 
material  attributes  of  riches,  depreciating  or  exalting, 
incalculably,  the  monetary  signitication  of  the  sum  in 
question.  One  mass  of  money  is  the  outcome  of  action 
which  has  created,  —  another,  of  action  which  has 
annihilated,  —  ten  times  as  much  in  the  gathering  of  it ; 
such  and  such  strong  hands  have  been  paralyzed,  as  if 
they  had  been  numbed  by  nightshade  :  so  many  strong 
men's  courage  broken,  so  many  productive  operations 
hindered;  this  and  the  other  false  direction  given  to 
labour,  and  lying  image  of  prosperity  set  up,  on  Dura 
plains  dug  into  seven-times-heated  furnaces.  That  which 
seems  to  be  wealth  may  in  verit}^  be  only  the  gilded 
index  of  far-reaching  ruin  ;  a  wrecker's  handful  of  coin 
gleaned  from  the  beach  to  which  he  has  beguiled  an 
argosy ;  a  camp-follower's  bundle  of  rags  unwrapped 
from  the  breasts  of  goodly  soldiers  dead ;  the  purchase- 
pieces  of  potter's  fields,  wherein  shall  be  buried  together 
the  citizen  and  the  stranger. 


152  JOHN   RUSKIlSr. 

And  therefore,  tlie  idea  that  directions  can  be  given 
for  the  gaining  of  wealth,  irrespectively  of  the  consid- 
eration of  its  moral  sources,  or  that  any  general  and 
technical  law  of  purchase  and  gain  can  be  set  down  for 
national  practice,  is  perhaps  the  most  insolentl}^  futile 
of  all  that  ever  beguiled  men  through  their  vices.  So 
far  as  I  know,  there  is  not  in  history  record  of  anything 
so  disgraceful  to  the  human  intellect  as  the  modern  idea 
that  the  commercial  text,  "Buy  in  the  cheapest  market 
and  sell  in  the  dearest,"  represents,  or  under  any  cir- 
cumstances could  represent,  an  available  principle  of 
national  economy.  Buy  in  the  cheapest  market  ?  — 
yes ;  but  what  made  your  market  cheap  ?  Charcoal 
may  be  cheap  among  your  roof  timbers  after  a  fire,  and 
bricks  may  be  cheap  in  your  streets  after  an  earthquake  ; 
but  fire  and  earthquake  may  not  therefore  be  national 
benefits.  Sell  in  the  dearest  ?^  yes,  truly;  but  what 
made  your  market  dear  ?  You  sold  your  bread  well  to- 
day ;  was  it  to  a  dying  man  who  gave  his  last  coin  for 
it,  and  will  never  need  bread  more,  or  to  a  rich  man 
who  to-morrow  will  buy  your  farm  over  your  head  ;  or  to 
a  soldier  on  his  way  to  pillage  the  bank  in  which  you 
have  put  your  fortune  ? 

None  of  these  things  you  can  know.  One  thing  only 
you  can  know,  namely,  whether  this  dealing  of  yours  is 
a  just  and  faithful  one,  which  is  all  you  need  concern 
yourself  about  respecting  it ;  sure  thus  to  have  done 
your  own  part  in  bringing  about  ultimately  in  the  world 
a  state  of  things  which  will  not  issue  in  pillage  or  in 
death.       And    thus    every     question   concerning   these 


PRINCIPLES    AND   FACTS.  153 

things  merges  itself  ultimately  in  the  great  question  of 
justice,  which,  the  grounfl  being  thus  far  cleared  for  it, 
I  will  enter  upon  in  the  next  paper,  leaving  only,  in 
tills,  three  final  points  for  the  reader's  consideration. 

It  has  been  shown  that  the  chief  value  and  virtue  of 
money  consists  in  its  having  power  over  human  beings ; 
that,  without  this  power,  large  material  possessions  are 
useless,  and  to  any  person  possessing  such  power,  com- 
paratively unnecessary.  But  power  over  human  beings 
is  attainable  by  other  means  than  by  money.  As  I  said 
a  few  pages  back,  the  money  poAver  is  always  imperfect 
and  doubtful :  there  are  many  things- Avhich  cannot  be 
reached  with  it,  others  which  cannot  be  retained  by  it. 
Many  joys  may  be  given  to  men  which  cannot  be  bought 
for  gold,  and  many  fidelities  found  in  them  which  can-i 
not  be  rewarded  with  it. 

Trite  enough,  —  the  reader  thinks.  Yes  :  but  it  is  not 
so  trite,  —  I  wish  it  were,  —  that  in  this  moral  power, 
quite  inscrutable  and  immeasurable  though  it  be,  there 
is  a  monetary  value  just  as  real  as  that  represented  by 
more  ponderous  currencies.  A  man's  hand  may  be  full 
of  invisible  gold,  and  the  wave  of  it,  or  the  grasp,  shall 
do  more  than  another's  with  a  shower  of  bullion.  This 
invisible  gold,  also,  does  not  necessarily  diminish  in 
spending.  Political  economists  will  do  well  some  day 
to  take  heed  of  it,  though  they  cannot  take  measure. 

But  farther.  Since  the  essence  of  wealth  consists  in 
its  authority  over  men,  if  the  apparent  or  nominal 
wealth  fail  in  this  power,  it  fails  in  essence ;  in  fact, 
ceases  to  be  wealth  at  all.     It  does  not  appear  lately  in 


) 


154  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

England,  that  our  authority  over  men  is  absolute.  The 
servants  show  some  disposition  to  rush  riotously  up- 
stairs, under  an  impression  that  their  wages  are  not 
regularly  paid.  We  should  augur  ill  of  any  gentleman's 
property  to  whom  this  happened  every  other  day  in  his 
drawing-room. 

So,  also,  the  power  of  our  wealth  seems  limited  as 
respects  the  comfort  of  the  servants,  no  less  than  their 
quietude.  The  persons  in  the  kitchen  appear  to  be  ill- 
dressed,  squalid,  half-starved.  One  cannot  help  imagin- 
ing that  the  riches  of  the  establishment  must  be  of  a 
very  theoretical  and  documentary  character. 

Finally.  Since  the  essence  of  wealth  consists  in 
power  over  men,  will  it  no,t  follow  that  the  nobler  and 
the  more  in  number  the  persons  are  over  whom  it  has 
power,  the  greater  the  wealth  ?  Perhaps  it  may  even 
ajDpear  after  some  consideration,  that  the  persons  them- 
selves «re  the  wealth  —  that  these  pieces  of  gold  with 
which  we  are  in  the  habit  of  guiding  them,  are,  in  fact, 
nothing  more  than  a  kind  of  Byzantine  harness  or 
trappings,  very  glittering  and  beautiful  in  barbaric 
sight,  wherewith  we  bridle  the  creatures ;  but  that  if 
these  same  living  creatures  could  be  guided  without  the 
fretting  and  jingling  of  the  Byzants  in  their  mouths 
and  ears,  they  might  themselves  be  more  valuable  than 
their  bridles.  In  fact,  it  may  be  discovered  that  the 
true  veins  of  wealth  are  purple — and  not  in  Rock,  but 
in  Flesli  —  perhaps  even  that  the  final  outcome  and 
consummation  of  all  wealth  is  in  the  producing  as  many 
as     possible    full-breathed,     bright-eyed,     and     happy- 


PRINCIPLES  AND  FACTS.  155 

hearted  human  creatures.  Our  modern  wealth,  I  think, 
has  rather  a  tendency  the  other  way  ;  —  most  political 
economists  appearing  to  consider  multitudes  of  human 
creatures  not  conducive  to  wealth,  or  at  best  conducive 
to  it  only  by  remaining  in  a  dim-eyed  and  narrow- 
chested  state  of  being. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  open,  I  repeat,  to  serious  question, 
which  I  leave  to  the  reader's  pondering  whether,  among 
national  manufactures,  that  of  Souls  of  a  good  quality 
may  not  at  last  turn  out  a  quite  leadingly  lucrative 
one  ?  Nay,  in  some  far-away  and  yet  undreamed-of 
hour,  I  can  even  imagine  that  England  may  cast  all 
thoughts  of  possessive  wealth  back  to  the  barbaric 
nations  among  whom  they  first  arose  ;  and  that,  while 
the  sands  of  the  Indus  and  adamant  of  Golconda  may 
yet  stiffen  the  housings  of  the  charger,  and  flash  from 
the  turban  of  the  slave,  she,  as  a  Christian  mother,  may 
at  last  attain  to  the  virtues  and  the  treasures  of  a 
Heathen  one,  and  be  able  to  lead  forth  her  sons,  say- 
ing, — 

"  These  are  my  Jewels." 

—  U7ito  This  Last,  ii. 

THE    STATE    AND    THE    WORKMAN. 

The  general  principles  by  wdiich  employment  should 
be  regulated  may  be  briefly  stated  as  follows  :  — 

1.  There  being  three  great  classes  of  mechanical 
powers  at  our  disposal,  namely  (a)  vital  or  muscular 
power  ;  (h)  natural  mechanical  power  of  wind,  water,  and 
electricity ;    and    (c)   artificially    produced    mechanical 


156  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

/power ;  it  is  the  first  principle  of  economy  to  use  all 
available  vital  power  first,  then  the  inexpensive  natnral 
forces,  and  only  at  last  to  have  recourse  to  artificial 
power.  And  this,  because  it  is  always  better  for  a  man 
to  work  with  his  own  hands  to  feed  and  clothe  himself, 
than  to  stand  idle  while  a  machine  works  for  him ;  and 
if  he  cannot,  by  all  the  labour  healthily  possible  to  him, 
feed  and  clothe  himself,  then  it  is  better  to  use  an  inex- 
pensive machine  —  as  a  wind-mill  or  water-mill  —  than  a 
costly  one  like  a  steam-engine,  so  long  as  we  have  natural 
force  enough  at  our  disposal.  Whereas  at  present  we 
continually  hear  economists  regret  that  the  water-power 
of  the  cascades  or  streams  of  a  country  should  be  lost, 
but  hardly  ever  that  the  muscular  power  of  its  idle  in- 
habitants should  be  lost;  and  again,  we  see  vast  districts, 
as  the  south  of  Provence,  where  a  strong  wind  blows 
steadily  all  day  long  for  six  days  out  of  seven  throughout 
the  year,  without  a  windmill,  while  men  are  continually 
employed  a  hundred  miles  to  the  nortli,  in  digging  fuel 
to  obtain  artificial  power.  But  the  principal  ]>oint  of 
all  to  be  kept  in  view  is,  that  in  every  idle  arm  and 
i shoulder  throughout  the  country  there  is  a  certain  quxu- 
jtity  of  force,  equivalent  to  the  force  of  so  much  fuel ;  and 
'that  it  is  mere  insane  waste  to  dig  for  coal  for  our  force, 
while  the  vital  force  is  unused  ;  and  not  only  unused,  but, 
in  being  so,  corrupting  and  polluting  itself.  We  waste 
our  coal,  and  spoil  our  humanity  at  one  and  the  same 
instant.  Therefore,  wherever  there  is  an  idle  arm,  alwa3^s 
save  coal  with  it,  and  the  stores  of  England  will  last  all 
the  longer.     And  precisely  the  same  argument  answers 


PRINCIPLES  AND  FACTS.  157 

the  common  one  about  "  taking  employment  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  industrious  labourer."  Why,  what  is  "em- 
ployment '•  but  the  putting  out  of  vital  force  instead  of 
mechanical  force  ?  We  are  continually  in  search  of 
means  of  strength,  —  to  pull,  to  hammer,  to  fetch,  to 
carry ;  we  waste  our  future  resources  to  get  this  strength, 
while  we  leave  all  the  living  fuel  to  burn  itself  out  in 
mere  pestiferous  breath,  and  production  of  its  variously 
noisome  forms  of  ashes  !  Clearly,  if  we  want  lire  for 
force,  we  want  men  for  force  first.  The  industrious 
hands  must  already  have  so  much  to  do  that  they  can 
do  no  more,  or  else  we  need  not  use  machines  to  help  them. 
Then  use  the  idle  hands  first.  Instead  of  dragging  pe- 
troleum with  a  steam-engine,  put  it  on  a  canal,  and  drag  it 
with  human  arms  and  shoulders.  Petroleum  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  in  a  hurry  to  arrive  anywhere.  We  can  always 
order  that,  and  many  other  things,  time  enough  before 
we  want  it.  So,  the  carriage  of  everything  which  does 
not  spoil  by  keeping  may  most  wholesomel}^  and  safely 
be  done  by  water-traction  and  sailing  vessels ;  and  no 
healthier  work  can  men  be  pvit  to,  nor  better  discipline, 
than  such  active  porterage. 

2.  In  employing  all  the  muscular  power  at  our 
disposal  we  are  to  make  the  employments  we  choose 
as  educational  as , possible.  For  a  wholesome  human  em- 
ployment is  the  first  and  best  method  of  education,  mental 
as  well  as  bodily.  A  man  taught  to  plough,  row,  or  steer 
well,  and  a  woman  taught  to  cook  properly,  and  make  a 
di-ess  neatly,  are  already  educated  in  many  essential 
moral   habits.     Labour   considered    as  a  discipline   has 


al    I 


(I 


158  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

hitherto  been  thought  of  only  for  criminals  ;  but  the  real 
and  noblest  fuuctijia^Qf^labour  is,  JtQ^pxevent^cjijjie,  and 
not  to  be  JSsformatory,  but  Formatory* 

The  third  great  principle  of  employment  is,  that  when- 
ever there  is  pressure  of  poverty  to  be  met,  all  enforced 
occupation  should  be  directed  to  the  production  of  useful 
articles  only,  that  is  to  say,  of  food,  of  simple  clothing, 
of  lodging,  or  of  the  means  of  conveying,  distributing, 
and  preserving  these.  It  is  yet  little  understood  by 
economists,  and  not  at  all  by  the  public,  that  the  em- 
ployment of  persons  in  a  useless  business  cannot  relieve 
ultimate  distress.  The  money  given  to  employ  riband- 
makers  at  Coventry  is  merely  so  much  money  withdrawn 
from  what  would  have  employed  lace-makers  at  Honiton: 
or  makers  of  something  else,  as  useless,  elsewhere.  We 
must  spend  our  money  in  some  way,  at  some  time,  and  it 
cannot  at  any  time  be  spent  without  employing  somebody. 
If  we  gamble  it  away,  the  person  who  wins  it  must  spend 
it ;  if  we  lose  it  in  a  railroad  speculation,  it  has  gone  into 
some  one  else's  pockets,  or  merely  gone  to  pay  navvies 
for  making  a  useless  embankment,  instead  of  to  pay 
riband  or  button  makers  for  making  useless  ribands  or 
buttons ;  we  cannot  lose  it  (unless  by  actually  destroying 
it)  without  giving  employment  of  some  kind ;  and  there- 
fore, whatever  quantity  of  money  exists,  the  relative 
quantity  of  employment  must  some  day  come  out  of  it ; 
but  the  distress  of  the  nation  signifies  that  the  employ- 
ments given  have  produced  nothing  that  will  support  its 
existence.  Men  cannot  live  on  ribands,  or  buttons,  or 
velvet,  or  by  going  quickly  from  place  to  place;  and  every 


PRINCIPLES   AND   FACTS.  159 

coin  spent  in  useless  ornament,  or  useless  motion,  is  so 
much  withdrawn  from  the  national  means  of  life.  One 
of  the  most  beautiful  uses  of  railroads  is  to  enable  A  to 
travel  from  the  town  of  X  to  take  away  the  business  of 
B  in  the  town  of  Y ;  while,  in  the  mean  time,  B  travels 
from  the  town  of  Y  to  take  away  A's  business  in  the 
town  of  X.  But  the  national  wealth  is  not  increased  by 
these  operations.  Whereas  every  coin  spent  in  cultivat- 
ing ground,  in  repairing  lodging,  in  making  necessary 
and  good  roads,  in  preventing  danger  by  sea  or  land,  and 
in  carriage  of  food  or  fu.el  where  they  are  required,  is  so 
much  absolute  and  direct  gain  to  the  whole  nation.  To 
cultivate  land  round  Coventry  makes  living  easier  at 
Honiton,  and  every  acre  of  land  gained  from  the  sea  in 
Lincolnshire  makes  life  easier  all  over  England. 

Fourth,  and  lastly.  Since  for  every  idle  person,  some  one 
else  must  be  working  somewhere  to  provide  him  with 
clothes  and  food,  and  doing,  therefore,  double  the  quan- 
tity of  work  that  would  be  enough  for  his  own  needs,  it 
is  only  a  matter  of  pure  justice  to  compel  the  idle  })erson 
to  work_JorJlLS.-ini4intenance  himself.  Tlie  conscription 
has  been  used  in  many  countries,  to  take  away  labour- 
ers who  supported  their  families,  from  their  useful  work, 
and  maintain  them  for  purposes  chiefly  of  military  display 
at  the  public  expense.^  Since  this  has  been  long  endured 
by  the  most  civilized  nations,  let  it  not  be  thought  that 
they  would  not  much  more  gladly  endure  a  conscription 
which  should  seize  only  the  vicious  and  idle,  already 
living  by  criminal  procedures  at  the  public  expense  ;  and 
which   should   discipline    and    educate   them   to   labour 


160  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

which  would  not  only  maintain  themselves,  but  be  serv- 
iceable to  the  commonwealth.  The  question  is  simply 
this  : — we  must  feed  the  drunkard,  vagabond,  and  thief; 
—  but  shall  we  do  so  by  letting  them  steal  their  food, 
and  do  no  work  for  it  ?  or  shall  we  give  them  their  food 
in  appointed  quantity,  and  enforce  their  doing  work 
which  shall  be  worth  it  ?  and  which,  in  process  of  time, 
will  redeem  their  own  characters,  and  make  them  happy 
and  serviceable  members  of  society  ?  —  The  Queen  of  the 
Air. 


FALLACIES.  161 


FALLACIES. 

PRODUCTION    OF    LUXURIES. 


Whenever  we  spend  money,  we  of  course  set  people 
to  work  :  that  is  the  meaning  of  spending  money ;  we 
may,  indeed,  lose  it  without  employing  anybody  ;  but, 
whenever  we  spend  it,  we  set  a  number  of  people  to 
work,  greater  or  less,  of  course,  according  to  the  rate  of 
wages,  but,  in  the  long  run,  proportioned  to  the  sum  we 
spend.  AVell,  your  shallow  people,  because  they  see 
that  however  they  spend  money  they  are  always  employ- 
ing somebody,  and,  therefore,  doing  some  good,  think  and 
say  to  themselves,  that  it  is  all  one  how  they  spend  it 
—  that  all  their  apparently  selfish  luxury  is,  in  reality, 
unselfish,  and  is  doing  just  as  much  good  as  if  they  gave 
all  their  money  away,  or  perhaps  more  good  ;  and  I  have 
heard  foolish  people  even  declare  it  as  a  principle  of 
political  economy,  that  whoever  invented  a  new  want 
conferred  a  good  on  the  community.  I  have  not  words 
strong  enough,  —  at  least,  I  could  not,  without  shocking 
you,  use  the  words  which  would  be  strong  enough,  —  to 
express  my  estimate  of  the  absurdity  and  the  mischiev- 
ousness  of  this  popular  fallacy.  So,  putting  a  great 
restraint  upon  myself,  and  using  no  hard  words,  I  will 
simply  try  to  state  the  nature  of  it,  and  the  extent  of 
its  influence. 


162  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

Granted,  that  whenever  we  spend  money  for  whatever 
purpose,  we  set  people  to  work ;  and  passing  by,  for  the 
moment,  the  question  whether  the  work  we  set  them  to 
is  all  equally  healthy  and  good  for  them,  we  will  assume 
that  whenever  we  spend  a  guinea  we  provide  an  equal 
number  of  people  with  healthy  maintenance  for  a  given 
time.  But,  by  the  way  in  which  we  sj)end  it,  we 
entirely  direct  the  labour  of  these  people  during  that 
given  time.  We  become  their  masters  or  mistresses, 
and  we  compel  them  to  produce,  within  a  certain  period, 
a  certain  article.  Now,  that  article  may  be  a  useful  and 
lasting  one,  or  it  may  be  a  useless  and  perishable  one  — 
it  may  be  one  useful  to  the  whole  community,  or  useful 
only  to  ourselves.  And  our  selfishness  and  folly,  or  our 
virtue  and  prudence  are  shown,  not  by  our  spending 
money,  but  by  our  spending  it  for  the  wrong  or  the 
right  thing ;  and  we  are  wise  and  kind,  not  in  maintain- 
ing a  certain  number  of  people  for  a  given  period,  but 
only  in  requiring  them  to  produce,  during  that  period, 
the  kind  of  things  which  shall  be  useful  to  society,  in- 
stead of  those  which  are  only  useful  to  ourselves. 

Thus,  for  instance :  if  3'ou  are  a  young  lady,  and  em- 
ploy a  certain  number  of  sempstresses  for  a  given  time, 
in  making  a  given  number  of  simple  and  serviceable 
dresses  —  suppose,  seven ;  of  which  you  can  wear  one 
yourself  for  half  the  winter,  and  give  six  away  to  poor 
girls  who  have  none,  you  are  spending  your  money  un- 
selfishly. But  if  you  employ  the  same  number  of 
sempstresses  for  the  same  number  of  days,  in  making 
four,  or  five,  or  six  beautiful  flounces  for  your  own  ball- 


FALLACIES.  163 

dress  —  flounces  which  will  clothe  no  one  but  yourself, 
and  which  you  will  yourself  be  unal>le  to  wear  at  more 
than  one  ball  —  you  are  employing  your  money  selfishly. 
You  have  maintained,  indeed,  in  each  case,  the  same 
number  of  people  ;  but  in  the  one  case  you  have  directed 
their  labor  to  the  service  of  the  community ;  in  the 
other  case,  you  have  consumed  it  wholly  upon  yourself. 
I  don't  say  you  are  never  to  do  so ;  I  don't  say  you 
ought  not  sometimes  to  think  of  yourselves  only,  and  to 
make  yourselves  as  pretty  as  you  can  ;  only  do  not  con- 
fuse coquettishness  with  benevolence,  nor  cheat  your- 
selves into  thinking  that  all  the  finery,  you  can  wear  is 
so  much  put  into  the  hungry  mouths  of  those  beneath 
you  :  it  is  not  so ;  it  is  what  you  yovirselves,  whether 
you  will  or  no,  must  sometimes  instinctively  feel  it  to 
be  —  it  is  wdiat  those  who  stand  shivering  in  the  streets, 
forming  a  line  to  watch  you  as  you  step  out  of  your 
carriages,  know  it  to  be ;  those  fine  dresses  do  not  mean 
that  so  much  has  been  put  into  their  mouths,  but  that 
so  much  has  been  taken  out  of  their  mouths.  The  real 
politico-economical  signification  of  every  one  of  these 
beautiful  toilettes,  is  just  this  :  that  you  have  had  a 
certain  number  of  people  put  for  a  certain  number  of 
days  wholly  under  your  authority,  by  the  sternest  of 
slave-masters  —  hunger  and  cold;  and  you  have  said  to 
them,  "I  will  feed  you,  indeed,  and  clothe  you,  and  give 
you  fuel  for  so  many  days  ;  but  during  those  days  you 
shall  work  for  me  only :  your  little  brothers  need 
clothes,  but  you  shall  make  none  for  them  :  your  sick 
friend  needs  clothes,  but  you  shall   make  none  for  her; 


164  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

you  yourself  will  soon  need  another  and  a  warmer  dress, 
but  you  shall  make  none  for  yourself.  You  shall  make 
nothing  but  lace  and  roses  for  me  ;  for  this  fortnight  to 
come,  you  shall  work  at  the  patterns  and  petals,  and 
then  I  will  crush  and  consume  them  away  in  an  hour." 
You  will  perhaps  answer,  "  It  may  not  be  particularly 
benevolent  to  do  this,  and  we  won't  call  it  so ;  but  at 
any  rate  we  do  no  wrong  in  taking  their  labour  when  we 
pay  them  their  ■wages :  if  we  pay  for  their  work,  we 
have  a  right  to  it."  No  ;  —  a  thousand  times  no.  The 
labour  which  you  have  paid  for,  does  indeed  become,  by 
the  art  of  purchase,  your  own  labour :  you  have  bought 
the  hands  and  the  time  of  those  workers ;  they  are,  by 
right  and  justice,  your  own  hands,  your  own  time.  But 
have  you  a  right  to  spend  your  own  time,  to  work  with 
j-our  own  hands,  only  for  your  own  advantage  ?  —  much 
more,  when,  by  purchase,  you  have  invested  your  own 
person  with  the  strength  of  others :  and  added  to  your 
own  life,  a  part  of  the  life  of  others  ?  You  may,  indeed, 
to  a  certain  extent,  use  their  labour  for  your  delight : 
remember,  I  am  making  no  general  assertions  against 
splendour  of  dress,  or  pomp  of  accessories  of  life ;  on 
the  contrary,  there  are  many  reasons  for  thinking  that 
we  do  not  at  present  attach  enough  importance  to  beau- 
tiful dress,  as  one  of  the  means  of  influencing  general 
taste  and  character.  But  I  do  say,  that  you  must  weigh 
the  value  of  what  you  ask  these  workers  to  produce  for 
you  in  its  own  distinct  balance  :  that  on  its  ov/n  worthi- 
ness or  desirableness  rests  the  question  of  j^our  kindness, 
and  not  merely  on  the  fact  of  your  having  employed 


FALLACIES.  165 

people  in  producing  it :  and  I  say  further,  that  as  long 
as  there  are  cold  and  nakedness  in  the  land  around  you, 
so  long  there  can  be  no  question  at  all  but  that  S]»len- 
dour  of  dress  is  a  crime.  In  due  time,  when  we  have 
nothing  better  to  set  people  to  work  at,  it  may  be  right 
to  let  them  make  lace  and  cut  jewels;  but  as  long  as 
there  are  any  who  have  no  blankets  for  their  beds,  and 
no  rags  for  their  bodies,  so  long  it  is  blanket-making 
and  tailoring  we  must  set  people  to  work  at  —  not  lace. 

And  it  would  be  strange,  if  at  any  great  assembly 
which,  while  it  dazzled  the  young  and  the  thoughtless, 
beguiled  the  gentler  hearts  that  beat,  beneath  the  em- 
broidery, with  a  placid  sensation  of  luxurious  benevo- 
lence—  as  if  by  all  that  they  wore  in  waywardness  of 
beauty,  comfort  had  been  first  given  to  the  distressed, 
and  aid  to  the  indigent ;  it  would  be  strange,  I  say,  if, 
for  a  moment,  the  spirits  of  Truth  and  of  Terror,  which 
walk  invisibly  among  the  masques  of  the  earth,  would 
lift  the  dimness  from  our  erring  thoughts,  and  show  us 
how, — inasmuch  as  the  sums  exhausted  for  that  mag- 
nificence would  have  given  back  the  failing  breath  to 
many  an  unsheltered  outcast  on  moor  and  street  —  the}- 
who  wear  it  have  literally  entered  into  partnership  with 
Death,  and  dressed  themselves  in  his  spoils.  Yes,  if 
the  veil  could  be  lifted  not  only  from  your  thoughts, 
but  from  your  human  sight,  you  would  see  —  the  angels 
do  see — on  those  gay  white  dresses  of  yours,  strange 
dark  spots,  and  crimson  patterns  that  you  knevr  not  of 
—  spots  of  the  inextinguishable  red  that  all  the  seas  can- 
not wasli  away  ;  yes,  and  among  the  pleasant  flowers  that 


166  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

crown  your  fair  heads,  and  glow  on  your  wreathed  hair, 
you  woidd  see  that  one  weed  was  always  twisted  which 
no  one  thought  of — the  grass  that  grows  on  graves.  — 
A  Joy  Forever,  i. 

COMPETITION. 

Supposing  half  a  dozen  or  a  dozen  men  were  cast 
ashore  from  a  Avreck  on  an  uninhabited  island,  and  left 
to  their  own  resources,  one,  of  course,  according  to  his 
capacity,  would  be  set  to  one  business  and  one  to  another; 
the  strongest  to  dig  and  to  cut  wood,  and  to  build  huts 
for  the  rest ;  the  most  dexterous  to  make  shoes  out  of  bark 
and  coats  out  of  skins ;  the  best  educated  to  look  for  iron 
or  lead  in  the  rocks,  and  to  plan  the  channels  for  the  irri- 
gation of  the  fields.  But  though  their  labours  were  thus 
naturally  severed,  that  small  group  of  shipwrecked  men 
would  understand  well  enough  that  the  speediest  prog- 
ress was  to  be  made  by  helping  each  other,  —  not  by 
opposing  each  other  :  and  they  would  know  that  this  help 
could  only  be  properly  given,  so  long  as  they  were  frank 
and  open  in  their  relations,  and  the  difficulties  which 
each  lay  under  properly  explained  to  the  rest.  So  that 
any  appearance  of  secrecy  or  separateness  in  the  actions 
of  any  of  them  would  instantly,  and  justly,  be  looked 
upon  with  suspicion  by  the  rest,  as  the  sign  of  some  selfish 
or  foolish  proceeding  on  the  part  of  the  individual.  .  .  . 

And,  just  as  the  best  and  richest  result  of  wealth  and 
happiness  to  the  whole  of  them  would  follow  on  their 
perseverance  in  such  a  system  of  fraidc  communication 
and  of  helpful  labour  ;  —  so  precisely  the  worst  and  poor- 


FALLACIES.  167 

est  result  would  be  obtained  by  a  system  of  secrecy  and 
of  enmity  ;  and  each  man's  happiness  and  wealth  would 
assuredly  be  diminished  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in 
which  jealousy  and  concealment  became  their  social  and 
economical  principles.  It  would  not,  in  the  long  run, 
bring  good,  but  only  evil,  to  the  man  of  science,  if,  in- 
stead of  telling  openly  where  he  had  found  good  iron,  he 
carefully  concealed  every  new  bed  of  it,  that  he  might 
ask,  in  exchange  for  the  rare  ploughshare,  more  corn 
from  the  farmer,  or,  in  exchange  for  the  rude  needle, 
more  labour  from  the  sempstress  :  and  it  would  not  ulti- 
mately bring  good,  biit  only  evil,  to  the  farmers,  if  they^ 
sought  to  burn  each  other's  corn-stacks,  that  they  might  i 
raise  the  value  of  their  grain,  or  if  the  sempstresses  tried/ 
to  break  each  other's  needles,  that  each  might  get  all  the 
stitching  to  herself. 

Now  these  laws  of  human  action  are  precisely  as  au- 
thoritative in  their  application  to  the  conduct  of  a  million 
of  men,  as  to  that  of  six  or  twelve.  All  enmity,  jealousy, 
opposition,  and  secrecy  are  wholly,  and  in  all  circum- 
stances, destructive  in  their  nature  —  not  productive; 
and  all  kindness,  fellowship,  and  communicativeness 
are  invariably  productive  in  their  operation,  —  not  de- 
structive ;  and  the  evil  principles  of  opposition  and 
exclusiveness  are  not  rendered  less  fatal,  but  more  fatal, 
by  their  acceptance  among  large  masses  of  men ;  more 
fatal,  I  say,  exactly  in  proportion  as  their  influence  is 
more  secret.  For  though  the  opposition  does  always  its 
own  simple,  necessary,  direct  quantity  of  harm,  and 
withdraws  always  its  own  simple,  necessary,  measurable 


168  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

quantity  of  wealth  from  the  suin  possessed  by  the  com- 
\  inunity,  yet,  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  community, 
I  it  does  another  and  more  refined  mischief  than  this,  by 
concealing  its  own  fatality  under  aspects  of  mercantile 
complication  and  expediency,  and  giving  rise  to  multi- 
tudes of  false  theories,  based  on  a  mean  belief  in  narrow 
and  immediate  appearances  of  good  done  here  and  there 
by  things  which  have  the  universal  and  everlasting 
nature  of  evil.  So  that  the  time  and  powers  of  the 
nation  are  wasted,  not  only  in  wretched  struggling 
against  each  other,  but  in  vain  complaints,  and  ground- 
I  less  discouragements,  and  empty  investigations,  and  use- 
less experiments  in  laws,  and  elections,  and  inventions ; 
with  hope  always  to  pull  wisdom  through  some  new- 
f  shaped  slit  in  a  ballot-box,  and  to  drag  prosperity  down 
out  of  the  clouds  along  some  new  knot  of  electric  wire ; 
while  all  the  while  Wisdom  stands  calling  at  the  corners 
of  the  streets,  and  the  blessing  of  Heaven  waits  ready  to 
rain  down  upon  us,  deeper  than  the  rivers  and  broader 
than  the  dew,  if  only  we  will  obey  the  first  plain  princi- 
ples of  humanity,  and  the  first  plain  precepts  of  the 
skies:  "Execute  true  judgment  and  show  mercy  and 
compassion  every  man  to  his  brother ;  and  let  none  of 
you  imagine  evil  against  his  brother  in  your  heart." 

Therefore,  I  believe  most  firmly  that  as  the  laws  of 
national  prosperity  get  familiar  to  us,  we  sliall  more  and 
more  cast  our  toil  into  social  and  communicative  systems. 
—  A  Joy  Forever,  ii. 


FALLACIES.  169 


JUSTICE     AND    EQUALITY. 

This  distinction  between  rich  and  poor  rests  on  two 
bases.  "Within  its  proper  limits,  on  a  basis  which  is 
lawful  and  everlastingly  necessary ;  beyond  them,  on  a 
basis  unlawful,  and  everlastingly  corrupting  the  frame- 
work of  society.  The  lawful  basis  of  wealth  is,  that  a 
man  Avho  works  should  be  paid  the  fair  value  of  his 
work ;  and  that  if  he  does  not  choose  to  spend  it  to-day, 
he  should  have  free  leave  to  keep  it,  and 'spend  it  to- 
morrow. Thus,  an  industrious  man  Avorking  daily,  and 
laying  by  daily,  attains  at  last  the  possession  of  an 
jaccumulated  sum  of  wealth,  to  which  he  has  absolute 
right.  The  idle  person  Avho  will  not  work,  and  tlie 
wasteful  person  who  lays  nothing  by,  at  the  end  of  the 
same  time  will  be  doubly  poor  —  poor  in  possession,  and 
dissolute  in  moral  habit ;  and  he  will  then  naturally 
covet  the  money  which  tJie  other  has  saved.  And  if  he 
is  then  allowed  to  attack  the  other,  and  rob  him  of  his 
well-earned  wealth,  there  is  no  more  any  motive  for 
saving,  or  any  reward  for  good  conduct ;  and  all  society 
is  thereupon  dissolved,  or  exists  only  in  systems  of 
rapine.  Therefore  the  first  necessity  of  social  life  is 
the  clearness  of  national  conscience  in  enforcing  the 
law  —  that  he  should  keep  who  has  justly  earxed. 

That  law,  I  say,  is  the  proper  basis  of  distinction 
between  rich  and  poor.  But  there  is  also  a  false  basis 
of  distinction ;  namely,  the  power  held  over  those  who 
are  earning  wealth  by  those  who  already  possess  it,  and 
only   use    it    to    gain   more.     There    will   be    always   a 


f 


170  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

number  of  men  who  would  fain  set  themselves  to  the 
accumulation  of  wealth  as  the  sole  object  of  their  lives. 
Necessarily,  that  class  of  men  is  an  uneducated  class, 
inferior  in  intellect,  and  more  or  less  cowardly.  It  is 
physically  impossible  for  a  well-educated,  intellectual, 
or  brave  man  to  make  money  the  chief  object  of  his 
thoughts;  just  as  it  is  for  him  to  make  his  dinner  the 
principal  object  of  them.  All  healthy  people  like  their 
dinners,  but  their  dinner  is  not  the  main  object  of  their 
lives.  So  all  healthily  minded  people  like  making 
money — ought  to  like  it,  and  to  enjoy  the  sensation  of 
winning  it ;  but  the  main  object  of  their  life  is  not 
money ;  it  is  something  better  than  money.  .  .  .  But  in 
every  nation,  as  I  said,  there  are  a  vast  class  who  are 
ill-educated,  cowardl}^,  and  more  or  less  stupid.  And 
with  these  people,  just  as  certainly  the  fee  is  first,  and 
the  work  second,  as  with  brave  people  the  work  is  first, 
and  the  fee  second.  And  this  is  no  small  distinction. 
It  is  between  life  and  death  in  a  man ;  between  heaven 
and  hell  for  him.  You  cannot  serve  two  masters;  — 
you  vizi^t  serve  one  or  other.  If  your  work  is  first  with 
you,  and  your  fee  second,  work  is  your  master,  and  the 
lord  of  work,  who  is  God.  But  if  your  fee  is  first  with 
you,  and  your  work  is  second,  fee  is  your  master,  and 
the  lord  of  fee,  who  is  the  Devil;  and  not  only  the 
Devil,  but  the  lowest  of  devils  —  the  'least  erected 
fiend  that  fell.'  So  there  you  have  it  in  brief  terms  : 
Work  first  —  you  are  God's  servants;  Fee  first — you 
are  the  Fiend's.  And  it  makes  a  difference,  now  and 
ever,  believe  me,  whether  you  serve  Him   who  has  on 


FALLACIES.  171 

His  vesture  and  tliigli  written,  '  King  of  Kings,'  and 
whose  service  is  perfect  freedom;  or  liim  on  whose  vest- 
ure and  thigh  the  name  is  written,  'Slave  of  Slaves,' 
and  whose  service  is  perfect  slavery. 

However,  in  every  nation  there  are,  and  must  always 
be,  a  certain  number  of  these  Fiend's  servants,  who 
have  it  principally  for  the  object  of  their  lives  to  make 
money.  They  are  always,  as  I  said,  more  or  less  stupid, 
and  cannot  conceive  of  anything  else  so  nice  as  money. 
Stupidity  is  always  the  basis  of  the  Judas  bargain.  We 
do  great  injustice  to  Iscariot,  in  thinking  him  wicked 
above  all  common  wickedness.  He  was  only  a  common 
money-lover,  and,  like  all  money-lovers,  didn't  under- 
stand Christ;  —  couldn't  make  out  the  worth  of  Him, 
or  meaning  of  Him.  He  never  thought  He  would  be 
killed.  He  was  horror-struck  when  he  found  that  Christ 
would  be  killed ;  threw  his  money  away  instantly,  and 
hanged  himself.  How  many  of  our  present  money- 
seekers,  think  you,  would  have  the  grace  to  hang  them- 
selves, whoever  was  killed  ?  But  Judas  was  a  common, 
selfish,  muddle-headed,  pilfering  fellow ;  his  hand 
aiways  in  the  bag  of  the  poor,  not  caring  for  tliem. 
Helpless  to  understand  Christ,  he  yer  believed  in  Him, 
much  more  than  most  of  us  do;  had  seen  Him  do  mira- 
cles, thought  He  was  quite  strong  enough  to  shift  for 
Himself,  and  he,  Judas,  might  as  well  make  his  own 
little  bye-perquisites  out  of  the  affair,  Christ  would 
come  out  of  it  well  enough,  and  he  have  his  thirty 
pieces./  Now,  that  is  the  money-seeker's  idea  all  over 
the  world.     He  doesn't  hate  Christ,  but  can't  understand 


172  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

Him  —  doesn't  care  for  Him  —  sees  no  good  in  that 
benevolent  business  ;  makes  his  own  little  job  out  of  it  at 
all  events,  come  what  will.  And  thus,  out  of  every  mass 
of  men,  you  have  a  certain  number  of  bag-men — your 
'fee-first'  men,  whose  main  object  is  to  make  money. 
And  they  do  make  it  —  make  it  in  all  sorts  of  unfair 
ways,  chiefly  by  the  weight  and  force  of  money  itself, 
or  what  is  called  the  power  of  capital ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  power  which  money,  once  obtained,  has  over  tlie 
labour  of  the  poor,  so  that  the  capitalist  can  take  all  its 
produce  to  himself,  except  the  labourer's  food.  That  is 
the  modern  Judas's  way  of  'carrying  the  bag,'  and 
'  bearing  what  is  put  therein.'  —  The  Crown  of  Wild 
Olive,  sees.  31-33. 

As  to  the  distribution  of  the  hard  work.  None  of  us, 
or  very  few  of  us,  do  either  hard  or  soft  work  because 
we  think  we  ought ;  but  because  we  have  chanced  to  fall 
into  the  way  of  it,  and  cannot  help  ourselves.  Now, 
nobody  does  anything  well  that  they  cannot  help  doing : 
work  is  only  done  well  when  it  is  done  with  a  will ;  and 
no  man  has  a  thoroughly  sound  will  unless  he  knows  he 
is  doing  what  he  should,  and  is  in  his  place.  And, 
depend  upon  it,  all  work  must  be  done  at  last,  not  in  a 
disorderly,  scrambling,  doggish  way,  but  in  an  ordered, 
soldierly,  human  way  —  a  lawful  or  'legal'  way.  JMen 
are  enlisted  for  the  labour  that  kills  — the  labour  of  war: 
they  are  counted,  trained,  fed,  dressed,  and  praised  for 
that.  Let  them  be  enlisted  also  for  the  labour  that 
feeds :  let  them  be  counted,  trained,  fed,  dressed,  praised 


FALLACIES.  173 

for  that.  Teach  the  plough  exercise  as  carefully  as  you 
do  the  sword  exercise,  and  let  the  officers  of  troops  of  life 
be  held  as  much  gentlemen  as  the  officers  of  troops  of 
death  ;  and  all  is  done  :  but  neither  this,  nor  any  other 
right  thing,  can  be  accomplished  —  you  can't  even  see 
your  way  to  it  —  unless,  first  of  all,  both  servant  and 
master  are  resolved  that,  come  what  will  of  it,  they  will 
do  each  other  justice.  People  are  perpetually  squabbling 
about  what  will  be  best  to  do,  or  easiest  to  do,  or  advisa- 
blestto  do,  or  profitablest  to  do;  but  they  never,  so  far 
as  I  hear  them  talk,  ever  ask  what  it  is  Jxst  to  do.  And 
it  is  the  law  of  heaven  that  you  shall  not  "be  able  to  judge 
what  is  wise  or  easy,  unless  you  are  first  resolved  to  judge 
what  is  just,  and  to  do  it.  That  is  the  one  thing  con- 
stantly reiterated  by  our  Master  —  the  order  of  all  others 
that  is  given  oftenest  —  'Do  justice  and  judgment.' 
That's  your  Bible  order ;  that's  the  '  Service  of  God,'  not 
praying  nor  psalm-singing.  You  are  tohl,  indeed,  to  sing 
psalms  Avhen  you  are  merry,  and  to  pray,  when  you  need 
anything ;  and,  by  the  perverseness  of  the  evil  spirit  in 
us,  we  get  to  think  that  praying  and  psalm-singing  are 
'service.'  If  a  child  finds  itself  in  want  of  anything,  it 
runs  in  and  asks  its  father  for  it  —  does  it  call  that  doing 
its  father  a  service  ?  If  it  begs  for  a  toy  or  a  })iece  of 
cake  —  does  it  call  that  serving  its  father  ?  That,  Avith 
God,  is  prayer,  and  He  likes  to  hear  it :  He  likes  you  to 
ask  him  for  cake  when  you  want  it;  but  He  doesn't  call 
that  '  serving  Him.'  Begging  is  not  serving  :  God  likes 
mere  beggars  as  little  as  you  do  —  He  likes  honest 
servants,  not  beggars.     So  when  a  child  loves  its  father 


174  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

Very  much,  and  is  very  happy,  it  may  sing  little  songs 
about  him;  but  it  doesn't  call  that,  serving  its  father; 
neither  is  singing  songs  about  God,  serving  God.  It  is 
enjoying  ourselves,  if  it's  anything;  most  probably  it  is 
nothing ;  but  if  it's  anything,  it  is  serving  ourselves,  not 
God.  And  yet  Ave  are  impudent  enough  to  call  our  beg- 
gings and  chauntings  'Divine  Service  : '  we  say  'Divine 
service  will  be  "performed"  '  (that's  our  word  —  the  form 
of  it  gone  through)  '  at  so  and  so  o'clock.'  Alas !  —  unless 
we  perform  Divine  service  in  every  Avilling  act  of  life, 
we  never  perform  it  at  all.  The  one  Divine  Avoik  — the 
one  ordered  sacrifice  —  is  to  do  justice ;  and  it  is  the  last 
we  are  everinclinedtodo.  Anything  rather  than  that !  As 
much  charity  as  you  choose,  but  no  justice.  'Naj^,'  you  will 
say,  'charity  is  greaterthan  justice.'  Yes,  it  is  greater,  it  is 
the  summit  of  justice  — -it  is  the  temple  of  which  justice 
is  the  foundation.  T'ut  you  can't  have  the  top  without 
the  bottom  ;  you  cannot  build  upon  charity.  You  must 
build  upon  justice,  for  this  main  reason,  that  you  have 
not  at  first,  charity  to  build  with.  It  is  the  last  reward 
of  good  work.  Do  justice  to  your  brother  (you  can  do 
that,  whether  you  love  him  or  not),  and  you  will  come 
to  love  him.  But  do  injustice  to  him,  because  you  don't 
love  him  ;  and  you  will  come  to  hate  him.  It  is  all  very 
fine  to  think  you  can  build  upon  charity  to  begin  with ; 
but  you  will  find  all  you  have  got  to  begin  with,  begins 
at  home,  and  is  essentially  love  of  yourself.  You  well- 
to-do  people,  for  instance,  who  are  here  to-night,  will  go 
to  'Divine  service'  next  Sunday,  all  nice  and  tid}/,  and 
3'our  little  children  will  have  their  tight  little  Sunday 


FALLACIES.  175 

boots  on,  and  lovely  little  Sunday  feathers  in  their  hats  ; 
and  you  think  complacently,  and  piously,  how  lovely 
they  look  going  to  church  in  their  best !  So  they  do : 
and  you  love  them  heartily,  and  you  like  sticking  feath- 
ers in  their  hats.  That's  all  right :  that  is  charity  ;  but 
it  is  charity  beginning  at  home.  Then  you  will  come  to 
the  poor  little  crossing-sweeper,  got  uj)  also,  — it,  in  its 
Sunday  dress, — the  dirtiest  rags  it  has,  —  that  it  may 
beg  the  better :  you  will  give  it  a  penny,  and  think  how 
good  you  are,  and  how  good  God  is  to  prefer  yoicr  child  to 
the  crossing-sweeper,  and  to  bestow  on  it  a  divine  hat, 
feather,  and  boots,  and  the  pleasure  of  givijig  pence,  instead 
of  begging  for  them.  That's  charity  going  abroad.  But 
what  does  justice  say,  walking  and  watching  near  us  ? 
Christian  Justice  has  been  strangely  mute,  and  seemingly 
blind ;  and,  if  not  blind,  decrepit,  this  many  a  day  :  she 
keeps  her  accounts  still,  however  —  quite  steadily  — 
doing  them  at  nights,  carefully,  with  her  bandage  off, 
and  through  acutest  spectacles  (the  only  modern  scientific 
invention  she  cares  about).  You  must  put  your  ear 
down  ever  so  close  to  her  lips  to  hear  her  speak  ;  and 
then  you  will  start  at  what  she  first  whispers,  for  it  will 
certainly  be,  'Why  shouldn't  that  little  crossing-sweeper 
have  a  feather  on  its  head,  as  well  ar,  your  own 
child  ?  '  Then  you  may  ask  Justice,  in  an  amazed  man- 
ner, '  Plow  she  can  possibly  be  so  foolish  as  to  think 
children  could  sweep  crossings  with  feathers  on  their 
heads  ?  Then  you  stoop  again,  and  Justice  says  —  still 
in  her  dull,  stupid  way  —  '  Then,  why  don't  you,  every 
other  Sunday,  leave  your  child  to  sweep  the  crossing,  and 


176  JOHN  EUSKIN. 

take  the  little  sweeper  to  church  in  a  hat  and  feather  ? ' 
Mercy  on  us  (you  think),  what  will  she  say  next !  And 
you  answer,  of  course,  that  'you  don't,  because  every- 
body ought  to  remain  content  in  the  position  in  which 
Providence  has  placed  them.'  Ah,  my  friends,  that's  the 
gist  of  the  whole  question.  Did  Providence  put  them 
in  that  position,  or  did  you  ?  You  knock  a  man  into  a 
ditch,  and  then  you  tell  him  to  remain  content  in  the 
*  position  in  which  Providence  has  placed  him.'  That's 
modern  Christianity.  You  say  '  We  did  not  knock  him  into 
the  ditch.'  We  shall  never  know,  what  you  have  done, 
or  left  undone,  until  the  question  with  us  every  morning 
is,  not  how  to  do  the  gainful  thing,  but  how  to  do  the  just 
tiling  during  the  day,  nor  until  we  are  at  least  so  far 
on  the  way  to  being  Christian,  as  to  acknowledge  that 
maxim  of  the  poor  half-way  Mahometan,  '  One  hour  in 
the  execution  of  justice  is  worth  seventy  years  of  prayer.' 
—  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  sees.  38-40. 

Now  the  establishment  of  inequality  cannot  be  shown 
in  the  abstract  to  be  either  advantageous  or  disadvanta- 
geous to  the  body  of  the  nation.  The  rash  and  absurd 
assumption  that  such  inequalities  are  necessarily  advan- 
tageous, lies  at  the  root  of  most  of  the  popular  fallacies 
on  the  subject  of  political  economy.  For  the  eternal 
and  inevitable  law  in  this  matter  is,  that  the  beneficial- 
ness  of  the  inequality  depends,  first,  on  the  methods  by 
which  it  was  accomplished,  and,  secondly,  on  the  pur- 
poses to  which  it  is  applied.  Inequalities  of  wealth, 
uiijustly  established,  have  assuredly  injured  the  nation 


FALLACIES.  177 

in  which  they  exist  during  their  establishment ;  and, 
unjustly  directed,  injure  it  yet  more  during  their  exist- 
ence. But  inequalities  of  wealth  justly  established, 
benefit  the  nation  in  the  course  of  their  establishment ; 
and,  nobly  used,  aid  it  yet  more  by  their  existence. 
That  is  to  say,  among  every  active  and  well-governed 
peoi)le,  the  various  strength  of  individuals,  tested  by 
full  exertion  and  specially  applied  to  various  need, 
issues  in  unequal,  but  harmonious  results,  receiving 
reward  or  authority  according  to  its  class  and  service  ; 
while  in  the  inactive  or  ill-governed  nation,  the  grada- 
tions of  decay  and  the  victories  of  treason  work  out  also 
their  own  rugged  system  of  subjection"  and  success  ;  and 
substitute,  for  the  melodious  inequalities  of  concurrent 
power,  the  iniquitous  dominances  and  depressions  of 
guilt  and  misfortune.  —  Unto  This  Last,  ii. 


178  JOHN  BUSKIN. 


PEOSPECT  AND  PKESENT  DUTY. 

Mex  can  neither  drink  steam,  nor  eat  stone.  The 
maximum  of  population  on  a  given  space  of  land  implies 
also  the  relative  maximum  of  edible  vegetable,  whether 
for  men  or  cattle ;  it  implies  a  maximum  of  pure  air ; 
and  of  pure  water.  Therefore  :  a  maximum  of  wood,  to 
transmute  the  air,  and  of  sloping  ground,  protected  by 
herbage  from  the  extreme  heat  of  the  sun,  to  feed  the 
streams.  All  England  may,  if  it  so  chooses,  become 
one  manufacturing  town  ;  and  Englishmen,  sacrificing 
themselves  to  the  good  of  general  humanity,  may  live 
diminished  lives  in  the  midst  of  noise,  of  darkness,  and 
of  deadly  exhalation.  But  the  world  cannot  become  a 
factory,  nor  a  mine.  No  amount  of  ingenuity  will  ever 
make  iron  digestible  by  the  million,  nor  substitute 
hydrogen  for  wine.  Neither  the  avarice  nor  the  rage 
of  men  will  ever  feed  them,  and  however  the  apple  of 
Sodom  and  the  grape  of  Gomorrah  may  spread  their 
table  for  a  time  with  dainties  of  ashes,  and  nectar  of 
asps,  —  so  long  as  men  live  by  bread,  the  far-away 
valleys  must  laugh  as  they  are  covered  with  the  gold  of 
God,  and  the  shouts  of  His  happy  multitudes  ring  round 
the  wine-press  and  the  well. 

Nor  need  our  more  sentimental  economists  fear  the 
too  wide  spread  of  the  formalities  of  a  mechanical 
agriculture.     The  presence  of  a  wise  population  implies 


PROSPECT  AND  PRESENT  DUTY.  179 

the  search  for  felicity  as  well  as  for  food ;  nor  can  any 
population  reach  its  maximum  but  through  that  wisdom 
Avhich  "  rejoices  "  in  the  habitable  parts  of  the  earth. 
The  desert  has  its  appointed  place  and  work  ;  the  eter- 
nal engine,  whose  beam  is  the  earth's  axle,  whose  beat 
is  its  year,  and  whose  breath  is  its  ocean,  will  still 
divide  imperiously  to  their  desert  kingdoms,  bound 
with  unfurrowable  rock,  and  swept  by  unarrested  sand, 
their  powers  of  frost  and  fire :  but  the  zones  and  the 
lands  between  habitable,  will  be  loveliest  in  habitation. 
The  desire  of  the  heart  is  also  the  light  of  the  eyes. 
No  scene  is  continually  and  untiringly  loved,  but  one 
rich  of  joyful  human  labour :  smooth  in  field  ;  fair  in 
garden  ;  full  in  orchard  ;  trim,  sweet,  and  frequent  in 
homestead  ;  ringing  with  voices  of  vivid  existence.  No 
air  is  sweet  that  is  silent;  it  is  only  sweet  when  full 
of  low  currents  of  under  sound  —  triplets  of  birds,  and 
murmur  and  chirp  of  insects,  and  deep-toned  words  of 
men,  and  wayward  trebles  of  childhood.  As  the  art  of 
life  is  learned,  it  Avill  be  found  at  last  tha,t  all  lovely 
things  are  also  necessary  :  —  the  wild  flower  by  the  way- 
side, as  well  as  the  tended  corn  ;  and  the  wild  birds  and 
creatures  of  the  forest,  as  well  as  the  tended  cattle ; 
because  man  doth  not  live  by  bread  only,  but  also  by  the 
desert  manna ;  by  every  wondrous  word  and  unknow- 
able work  of  God,  Happy,  in  that  he  knew  them  not, 
nor  did  his  fathers  know ;  and  that  round  about  him 
reaches  yet  into  the  infinite,  the  amazement  of  his 
existence. 

Note,  finally,  that  all  effectual  advancement  towards 


180  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

this  true  felicity  of  the  human  race  must  be  by  individ- 
ual, not  public  effort.  Certain  general  measures  may 
aid,  certain  revised  laws  guide,  such  advancement ;  but 
the  measure  and  law  which  have  first  to  be  determined 
are  those  of  each  man's  home.  .  .  . 

All  true  economy  is  '  Law  of  the  house.'     Strive  to 

make  that  law  strict,  simple,  generous :  waste  nothing, 

and  grudge  nothing.     Care  in  nowise  to  make  more  of 

money,    but   care   to   make    much  of   it ;  remembering 

always  the  great,  palpable,   inevitable   fact  —  the  rule 

and  root  of  all   economy  —  that  what  one  person  has, 

another  cannot  have  ;  and  that  every  atom  of  substance, 

of  whatever  kind,  used  or  consumed,  is  so  much  human 

life  spent ;  which,  if  it  issue  in  the  saving  present  life, 

or  gaining  more,  is  well  spent,  but  if  not,  is  either  so 

much  life  prevented,  or  so  much  slain.     In  all  buying, 

consider,  first,  wdiat  condition  of  existence  you  cause  in 

the  producers  of  what  you  buy ;  secondly,  whether  the 

sum  you  have  paid  is  just  to  the  producer,  and  in  due 

proportion,  lodged  in  his  hands ;  thirdly,  to  how  much 

clear  use,  for  food,  knowledge,  or  joy,  this  that  you  have 

bought  can  be  put ;  and  fourthly,  to  whom  and  in  what 

way  it  can  be  most  speedily  and  serv-,ceably  distributed : 

in  all  dealings  whatsoever  insisting  on  entire  openness 

and  stern  fulfilment ;    and  in  all  doings,  on  perfection  < 

and  loveliness  of  accomplishment ;  especially  on  fineness 

and  purity  of  all  marketable  commodity ;  watching  at 

the    same    time    for   all    ways    of   gaining  or  teaching, 

powers   of  simple  pleasure;    and  of  showing   "oaof  i" 

^acpoSiXco  ysf  ojf <a^  " ;  the  sum  of  enjoyment  depending 


PBOSPECT  AND  PliESENT  DUTY.  181 

not  on  the  quantity  of  things  tasted,  but  on  the  vivacity 
and  patience  of  taste. 

And  if,  on  due  and  honest  thought  over  these  things, 
it  seems  that  the  kind  of  existence  to  which  men  are 
now  summoned  by  every  plea  of  pity  and  claim  of  right, 
may,  for  some  time  at  least,  not  be  a  luxurious  one  ; 
—  consider  whether,  even  supposing  it  guiltless,  luxury 
would  be  desired  by  any  of  us,  if  we  saw  clearly  at  our 
sides  the  suffering  which  accompanies  it  in  the  world. 
Luxury  is  indeed  possible  in  the  future  —  innocent  and 
exquisite ;  luxury  for  all,  and  by  the  help  of  all ;  but 
luxury  at  present  can  only  be  enjoyed  by  the  ignorant : 
the  cruelest  man  living  could  not  sit  at  his  feast,  unless 
he  sat  blindfold.  Eaise  the  veil  boldly;  face  the  light; 
and  if,  as  yet,  the  light  of  the  eye  can  only  be  through 
tears,  and  the  light  of  the  body  through  sackcloth,  go 
thou  forth  weeping,  bearing  precious  seed,  until  the 
time  come,  and  the  kingdom,  when  Christ's  gift  of  bread 
and  bequest  of  peace  shall  be  Unto  this  last  as  unto 
thee ;  and  when,  for  earth's  severed  multitudes  of  the 
wicked  and  the  weary,  there  shall  be  holier  reconciliation 
than  that  of  the  narrow  home,  and  calm  economy,  where 
the  Wicked  cease  —  not  from  trouble,  but  from  troub- 
ling—  and  the  Weary  are  at  rest. —  Unto  This  Last,  iv. 


182  JOUN    RUSE  IN. 


THE   MEECHANT   CHIVALRY. 

Philosophically,  it  does  not,  at  first  sight,  appear  rea- 
sonable (many  writers  have  endeavoured  to  prove  it  un- 
reasonable) that  a  peaceable  and  rational  person,  whose 
trade  is  buying  and  selling,  should  be  held  in  less  honour 
than  an  unpeaceable  and  often  irrational  person,  whose 
trade  is  slaying.  Nevertheless,  the  consent  of  mankind 
has  always,  in  spite  of  the  philosophers,  given  precedence 
to  the  soldier. 

And  this  is  right. 

For  the  soldier's  trade,  verily  and  essentially,  is  not 
slaying,  but  being  slain.  This,  without  well  knowing  its 
own  meaning,  the  world  honours  it  for.  A  bravo's  trade 
is  slaying ;  but  the  world  has  never  respected  bravos 
more  than  merchants ;  the  reason  it  honours  the  soldier 
is,  because  he  holds  his  life  at  the  service  of  the  State. 
Eeckless  he  may  be  —  fond  of  pleasure  or  of  adventure 
—  all  kinds  of  bye-motives  and  mean  impulses  may  have 
determined  the  choice  of  his  profession,  and  may  affect, 
(to  all  appearance  exclusively)  his  daily  conduct  in  it ; 
but  our  estimate  of  him  is  based  on  this  ultimate  fact  —  of 
which  we  are  well  assured  —  that,  put  him  in  a  fortress 
bleach,  with  all  the  ])leasures  of  the  Avorld  behind  him, 
and  only  death  and  his  duty  in  front  of  hiui,  he  will  keep 
his  face  to  the  front;  and  he  knows  that  this  choice  may 
be  put  to  him  at  any  moment,  and  has  beforehand  taken 


THE  MERCHANT  CTIIVALEY.  183 

his  part — virtually  takes  such  part  continually  —  does, 
in  reality,  die  daily. 

Not  less  is  the  respect  we  pay  to  the  lawyer  and  phy- 
sician, founded  ultimately  on  their  self-sacrifice.  What- 
ever the  learning  or  acuteness  of  a  great  lawyer,  our  chief 
respect  for  him  depends  on  our  belief  that,  set  in  a 
judge's  seat,  he  will  strive  to  judge  justly,  come  of  it 
what  may.  Could  we  suppose  that  he  would  take  bribes, 
and  use  his  acuteness  and  legal  knowledge  to  give  plau- 
sibility to  iniquitous  decisions,  no  degree  of  intellect 
would  win  for  bim  our  respect.  Nothing  Avill  win  it 
short  of  our  tacit  conviction,  tbat  in,  all  important  acts 
of  his  life,  justice  is  first  with  him;  his  owii  interest, 
second. 

In  the  case  of  a  physician,  the  ground  of  the  honour 
we  render  him  is  clearer  still.  Whatever  his  science,  we 
should  shrink  from  him  in  horror  if  we  found  him  regard 
his  patients  merely  as  subjects  to  experiment  upon ; 
much  more,  if  Ave  found  that,  receiving  bribes  from  per- 
sons interested  in  their  deaths,  lie  was  using  his  best 
skill  to  give  poison  in  the  mask  of  medicine. 

Finally,  the  principle  holds  with  utmost  clearness  as 
it  respects  clergymen.  No  goodness  of  disposition  will 
excuse  want  of  science  in  a  physician  or  of  shrewdness 
in  an  advocate  ;  but  a  clergyman,  even  though  his  power 
of  intellect  be  small,  is  respected  on  the  presumed  ground 
of  his  unselfishness  and  serviceableness. 

Now  there  can  be  no  question  but  that  the  tact,  fore- 
sight, decision,  and  other  mental  powers,  required  for 
the  successful  management  of  a  large  mercantile  concern, 


184  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

if  not  such  as  could  be  compared  witli  those  of  a  great 
lawyer,  general,  or  divine,  would  at  least  match  the 
general  conditions  of  mind  required  in  the  subordinate 
officers  of  a  ship,  or  of  a  regiment,  or  in  the  curate  of  a  '" 
country  parish.  If,  therefore,  all  the  efficient  members  of 
the  so-called  liberal  professions  are  still,  somehow,  in  pub- 
lic estimate  of  honour,  preferred  before  the  head  of  a 
commercial  firm,  the  reason  must  lie  deeper  than  in  the 
measurement  of  their  several  powers  of  mind. 

And  the  essential  reason  for  such  preference  will  be 
found  to  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  merchant  is  presumed 
to  act  always  selfishly.  His  work  may  be  very  necessary 
to  the  community :  but  the  motive  of  it  is  understood  to 
be  wholly  personal.  The  merchant's  fii'st  object  in  all 
his  dealings  must  be  (the  public  believe)  to  get  as  much 
for  himself,  and  leave  as  little  to  his  neighbour  (or  cus- 
tomer) as  possible.  Enforcing  this  upon  him,  by  political 
statute,  as  the  necessary  principle  of  his  action  ;  recom- 
mending it  to  him  on  all  occasions,  and  themselves  re- 
ciprocally adopting  it ;  proclaiming  vociferously,  for  law 
of  the  universe,  that  a  buyer's  function  is  to  cheapen, 
and  a  seller's  to  cheat,  —  the  public,  nevertheless,  in- 
voluntarily condemn  the  man  of  commerce  for  his  com- 
pliance with  their  own  statement,  and  stamp  him  for 
ever  as  belonging  to  an  inferior  grade  of  human  per- 
sonality. 

This  they  will  find,  eventually,  they  must  give  up 
doing.  They  must  not  cease  to  condemn  selfishness  ; 
but  they  will  have  to  discover  a  kind  of  commerce  which 
is  not  exclusively  selfish.    Or,  rather,  they  will  have  to  dis- 


THE  MERCHANT  CHIVALRY.  185 

cover  that  there  never  was,  or  can  be,  any  other  kind  of 
commerce  ;  that  tliis  which  they  have  called  commerce  was 
not  commerce  at  all,  but  cozening;  and  that  a  true  mer- 
'  chant  differs  as  much  from  a  merchant  according  to  laws 
of  modern  political  economy,  as  the  hero  of  the  Excursion 
from  Autolycus.  They  will  find  that  commerce  is  an 
occupation  which  gentlemen  will  every  day  see  more  need 
to  engage  in,  rather  than  in  the  businesses  of  talking 
to  men,  or  slaying  them  ;  that,  in  true  commerce,  as  in 
true  preaching  or  true  fighting,  it  is  necessary  to  admit 
the  i-dea  of  occasional  voluntary  loss;  —  that  sixpences 
have  to  be  lost  as  well  as  lives,  under  a  sense  of 
duty  ;  that  the  market  may  have  its  martyrdoms  as 
well  as  the  pulpit ;  and  trade  its  heroisms  as  well  as 
war. 

May  have  —  in  the  final  issue,  must  have  —  and  only 
has  not  had  yet,  because  men  of  heroic  temper  have 
always  been  misguided  in  their  youth  into  other  fields, 
not  recognizing  what  is  in  our  days,  perhaps,  the  most 
important  of  all  fields  ;  so  that  while  many  a  zealous 
person  loses  his  life  in  trying  to  teach  the  foi*m  of  a 
gospel,  very  few  will  lose  a  hundred  pounds  in  showing 
the  practice  of  one. 

The  fact  is,  that  people  never  have  had  clearly  ex- 
plained to  them  the  true  functions  of  a  merchant  with 
respect  to  other  people.  I  should  like  the  reader  to  be 
very  clear  about  this. 

Five  great  intellectual  professions,  relating  to  daily 
necessities  of  life,  have  hitlierto  existed  —  three  exist 
necessarily,  in  every  civilized  nation  : 


186  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

The  Soldier's  profession  is  to  defend  it. 

The  Pastor's,  to  teach  it. 

The  Physician's,  to  Tieep  it  m  health. 

The  Lawyer's,  to  enforce  jtistice  in  it. 

The  Merchant's,  to  provide  for  it. 

And  the  duty  of  all  these  men  is,  on  due  occasion,  to 
die  for  it. 

'  On  due  occasion,'  namely  :  — 

The  Soldier,  rather  than  leave  his  post  in  battle. 

The  Physician,  rather  than  leave  his  post  in  plague. 

The  Pastor,  rather  than  teach  Falsehood. 

The  Lawyer,  rather  than  countenance  Injustice. 

The  Merchant  —  What  is  his  '  due  occasion  '  of 
death  ? 

It  is  the  main  question  for  the  merchant,  as  for  all  of 
us.  For  truly,  the  man  who  does  not  know  when  to  die, 
does  not  know  how  to  live. 

Observe,  the  merchant's  function  (or  manufacturer's, 
for  in  the  broad  sense  in  which  it  is  here  used,  the  word 
must  be  understood  to  inchxde  both)  is  to  provide  for  the 
nation.  It  is  no  more  his  function  to  get  profit  for  him- 
self out  of  that  provision  than  it  is  a  clergyman's  function 
to  get  his  stipend.  The  stipend  is  a  due  and  necessary 
adjunct,  but  not  the  object  of  his  life,  if  he  be  a  true 
clergyman,  any  more  than  his  fee  (or  lionorarium)  is  the 
object  of  life  to  a  true  physician.  Neither  is  his  fee 
the  object  of  life  to  a  true  merchant.  All  three,  if  true 
men,  have  a  work  to  be  done  irrespective  of  fee  —  to  be 
done  even  at  any  cost,  or,  for  quite  the  contrary  of  fee ; 
the  pastor's  function  being  to  teach,  the  physician's  to 


THE  MERCHANT  C  HIV  A  LEY.  187 

heal,  and  the  merchant's,  as  I  have  said,  to  provide. 
That  is  to  say,  he  has  to  understand  to  their  very  root 
the  qualities  of  the  thing  he  deals  in,  and  the  means  of 
obtaining  or  producing  it;  and  he  has  to  apply  all  his 
sagacity  and  energy  to  the  producing  or  obtaining  it  in 
perfect  state,  and  distributing  it  at  the  cheajjest  possible 
price  where  it  is  most  needed. 

And  because  the  production  or  obtaining  of  any  com- 
modity involves  necessarily  the  agency  of  many  lives 
and  hands,  the  merchant  becomes  in  the  course  of  his 
business  the  master  and  governor  of  large  masses  of  men 
in  a  more  direct,  though  less  confessed  way,  than  a 
military  officer  or  pastor ;  so  that  on  him  falls,  in  great 
part,  the  responsibility  for  the  kind  of  life  they  lead  : 
and  it  becomes  his  duty,  not  only  to  be  always  consider- 
ing how  to  produce  what  he  sells  in  the  purest  and 
cheapest  forms,  but  how  to  make  the  various  employ- 
ments involved  in  the  production,  or  transference  of  it, 
most  beneficial  to  the  men  employed. 

And  as  into  these  two  functions,  requiring  for  their 
right  exercise  the  highest  intelligence,  as  well  as  patience, 
kindness,  and  tact,  the  merchant  is  bound  to  put  all  his 
energy,  so  for  tlieir  just  discharge  he  is  bound,  as*soldier 
or  physician  is  bound,  to  give  up,  if  need  be,  his  life,  in 
such  way  as  may  be  demanded  of  him.  Two  main  points 
he  has  in  his  providing  function  to  maintain  :  first,  his 
engagements  (faithfulness  to  engagements  being  the  real 
root  of  all  possibilities  in  commerce)  ;  and,  secondly,  the 
perfectness  and  purity  of  the  thing  provided;  so  that, 
rather  than  fail  in  any  engagement;  or  consent  to  any 


188  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

deterioration,  adulteration,  or  unjust  and  exorbitant  price 
of  that  which  he  provides,  he  is  bound  to  meet  fearlessly 
any  form  of  distress,  poverty,  or  labour,  which  ma}^, 
through  maintenance  of  these  points,  come  upon  him.  — 
Unto  This  Last,  i. 


ST.    GEORGE'S  GUILD.  189 


ST.    GEOEGE'S   GUILD. 

THE    CREED    AKD    RESOLUTION. 

I.  I  TRUST  in  the  Living  God,  Father  Almighty, 
Maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  of  all  things  and 
creatures  visible  and  invisible. 

I  trust  in  the  kindness  of  His  law,  and  the  goodness 
of  His  work. 

And  I  will  strive  to  love  Him,  and  keep  His  law,  and 
see  His  work,  while  I  live. 

II.  I  trust  in  the  nobleness  of  human  nature,  in  the 
majesty  of  its  faculties,  the  fulness  of  its  mercy,  and  the 
joy  of  its  love. 

And  I  will  strive  to  love  my  neighbor  as  myself,  and, 
even  when  I  cannot,  will  act  as  if  I  did. 

III.  I  will  labour,  with  such  strength  and  opportu- 
nity as  God  gives  me,  for  my  own  daily  bread ;  and  all 
that  my  hand  finds  to  do,  I  will  do  with  my  might. 

IV.  I  will  not  deceive,  or  cause  to  be  deceived,  any 
human  being  for  my  gain  or  pleasure  ;  nor  hurt,  or  cause 
to  be  hurt,  any  human  being  for  my  gain  or  pleasure; 
nor  rob,  or  cause  to  be  robbed,  any  human  being  for  my 
gain  or  pleasure. 

V.  I  will  not  kill  nor  hurt  any  living  creature  need- 
lessly, nor  destroy  any  beautiful  thing,  but  will  strive  to 
save  and  comfort  all  gentle  life,  and  guard  and  perfect 
all  natural  beauty,  upon  the  earth. 


190  JOHN  EUSKIX. 

VI.  I  will  strive  to  raise  my  own  body  and  soul  daily 
into  higher  powers  of  duty  and  happiness  ;  not  in  rival- 
ship  or  contention  with  others,  but  for  the  help,  delight, 
and  honour  of  others,  and  for  the  joy  and  peace  of  my 
own  life. 

VII.  I  will  obey  all  the  laws  of  my  country  faith- 
fully ;  and  the  orders  of  its  monarch,  and  of  all  persons 
appointed  to  be  in  authority  under  its  monarch,  so  far 
as  such  laws  or  commands  are  consistent  with  what  I 
suppose  to  be  the  law  of  God ;  and  when  they  are  not, 
or  seem  in  any  wise  to  need  change,  I  will  oppose  them 
loyally  and  deliberately,  not  with  malicious,  concealed, 
or  disorderly  violence. 

VIII.  And  with  the  same  faithfulness,  and  under  the 
limits  of  the  same  obedience,  which  I  render  to  the  laws 
of  my  country,  and  the  commands  of  its  rulers,  I  will 
obey  the  laws  of  the  Society  called  of  St.  George,  into 
which  I  am  this  day  received  ;  and  the  orders  of  its 
masters,  and  of  all  persons  appointed  to  be  in  authority 
under  its  masters,  so  long  as  I  remain  a  Companion, 
called  of  St.  George.  —  Fot^s  Clavigera,  letter  Iv, 

THE    PROMISE. 

1.  To  do  your  own  work  well,  whether  it  be  for  life 
or  death. 

2.  To  help  other  people  at  theirs,  when  you  can,  and 
to  avenge  no  injury. 

3.  To  be  sure  you  can  obey  good  laws  before  you  seek 
to  alter  bad  ones. 


ST.    GEORGE'S   GUILD.  191 


THE    PROJECT. 

We  will  try  to  make  some  small  piece  of  English 
ground  beautiful,  peaceful,  and  fruitful.  We  will  have 
no  steam-engines  upon  it,  and  no  railroads ;  we  will  have 
no  untended  or  untliought-of  creatures  on  it ;  none 
wretched,  but  the  sick ;  none  idle,  but  the  dead.  We 
will  have  no  liberty  upon  it ;  but  instant  obedience  to 
known  law,  and  appointed  persons  :  no  equality  upon  it ; 
but  recognition  of  every  betterness  that  Ave  can  find,  and 
reprobation  of  every  worseness.  When  we  want  to  go 
anywhere,  we  will  go  there  quietly  and  safely,  not  at 
forty  miles  an  hour  in  the  risk  of  our  lives ;  when  we 
want  to  carry  anything  anywhere,  we  will  carry  it  either 
on  the  backs  of  beasts,  or  on  our  own,  or  in  carts,  or  in 
boats ;  Ave  Avill  have  plenty  of  floAvers  and  vegetables  in 
our  gardens,  plenty  of  corn  and  grass  in  our  fields,  —  and 
f  eAv  bricks.  We  Avill  have  some  music  and  poetry ;  the 
children  shall  learn  to  dance  to  it,  and  sing  it ;  perhaps 
some  of  the  old  people,  in  time,  may  also.  We  will  have 
some  art,  moreover;  we  will  at  least  try  if,  like  the 
Greeks,  we  can't  make  some  pots.  —  Fors  Claviyera, 
letter  v. 

Whatever  piece  of  land  we  begin  Avork  upon,  we 
shall  treat  thoroughly  at  once,  putting  unlimited  manual 
labor  on  it,  until  we  have  every  foot  of  it  under  as  strict 
care  as  a  floAver-garden  :  and  the  labourers  shall  be  paid 
sufficient,  unchanging  wages ;  and  their  children  educated 
compulsorily  in  agricultural  schools  inland,  and  naval 


192  JOHN  BUSK  IK. 

schools  by  the  sea,  the  indispensable  first  condition  of 
such  education  being  that  the  boys  learn  either  to  ride 
or  to  sail ;  the  girls  to  s]jin,  weave,  and  sew,  and  at  a 
proper  age  to  cook  all  ordinary  food  exquisitely ;  the 
youth  of  both  sexes  to  be  disciplined  daily  in  the  strict- 
est practice  of  vocal  music  ;  and  for  morality,  to  be 
taught  gentleness  to  all  brute  creatures,  —  finished 
courtesy  to  each  other,  —  to  speak  truth  with  rigid  care, 
and  to  obey  orders  with  the  precision  of  slaves.  Then, 
as  they  get  older,  they  are  to  learn  the  natural  history  of 
the  place  they  live  in,  —  to  know  Latin,  girls  and  boys 
both, — and  the  history  of  five  cities;  Atheus,  Rome, 
Venice,  Florence,  and  London.  —  Fors  Clavigera,  letter 
viii. 

In  the  history  of  the  five  cities  I  named,  they  shall 
learn,  so  far  as  they  can  understand,  what  has  been 
beautifully  and  bravely  done  ;  and  they  shall  know  the 
lives  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  in  truth  and  natural- 
ness ;  and  shall  be  taught  to  remember  the  greatest  of 
them  on  the  days  of  their  birth  and  death  ;  so  that  the 
year  shall  have  its  full  calendar  of  reverent  jMemory. 
And,  on  every  day,  part  of  their  morning  service  shall 
be  a  song  in  honour  of  the  hero  whose  birthday  it  is  ; 
and  part  of  their  evening  service,  a  song  of  triumph  for 
the  fair  death  of  one  whose  death-day  it  is  :  and  in  their 
first  learning  of  notes  they  siiall  be  taught  the  great 
purpose  of  music,  which  is  to  say  a  thing  that  you  mean 
deeply,  in  the  strongest  and  clearest  possible  way  ;  and 
they  shall  never  be  taught  to  sing  what  they  don't  mean. 


-ST.    GEORGE'S   GUILD.  193 

They  shall  be  able  to  sing  merrily  when  they  are  happy, 
and  earnestly  when  they  are  sad ;  but  they  shall  find  no 
mirth  in  mockery,  nor  in  obscenity ;  neither  shall  they 
waste  or  profane  their  hearts  with  artificial  and  lascivi- 
ous sorrow.  .  .  . 

To  divert  a  little  of  the  large  current  of  English 
charity  and  justice  from  watching  disease  to  guarding 
health,  and  from  the  punishment  of  crime  to  the  reward 
\of  virtue ;  to  establish,  here  and  there,  exercise  grounds 
/instead  of  hospitals,  and  training-schools  instead  of  peni- 
tentiaries, is  not,  if  you  will  slowly  take  it  to  heart,  a  fran- 
tic imagination.  — Foi^s  Clavigera,  letter  ix. 

The  St.  George's  Company  is  to  be  a  band  of  deliver- 
ing knights  —  not  of  churls  needing  deliverance;  of  eager 
givers  and  servants  —  not  of  eager  beggars  and  persons 
needing  service.  It  is  only  the  Rich  and  the  Strong 
whom  I  receive  for  Companions,  —  those  who  come  not 
to  be  ministered  unto  but  to  minister.  Rich,  yet  some 
of  them  in  other  kind  of  riches  than  the  world's ;  strong, 
yet  some  in  other  than  the  world's  strength.  But  this 
much,  at  least,  of  literal  strength  and  power  they  must 
liave, — the  power,  and  formed  habit  of  self-support. 
—  Fors  Clavigera,  letter  Ixiii. 

It  is  the  work  of  a  world-wide  monastery ;  protesting 
by  patient,  not  violent,  deed,  and  fearless,  yet  hence- 
forward unpassionate,  word,  against  the  evil  of  this  our 
day,  till  in  its  heat  and  force  it  be  ended. 

Of  which  evil  I  here  resume  the  entire  assertion  made 
in  Fors,  up  to  this  time,  in  few  words. 


194  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

All  so'jial  evils  and  religious  errors  arise  out  of  the 
pillage  of  the  labourer  by  the  idler  :  the  idler  leaving 
him  only  enough  to  live  on  (and  even  that  miserably), 
and  taking  all  the  rest  of  the  produce  of  his  work  to 
spend  in  his  own  luxury,  or  in  the  toys  with  which  he 
beguiles  his  idleness. 

And  this  is  done,  and  has  from  time  immemorial  been 
done,  in  all  so-called  civilized,  but  in  reality  corrupted, 
countries,  —  first  by  the  landlords  ;  then,  under  their 
direction,  by  the  three  chief,  so-called  gentlemanly  "  pro- 
fessions," of  soldier,  lawyer,  and  priest ;  and  lastly  by 
the  merchant  and  usurer.  .  .  .  All  this  has  to  cease  in- 
[evitably  and  totally.  Peace,  Justice,  and  the  Word  of 
God  must  be  gioen  to  the  people,  not  sold.  And  these 
can  only  be  given  by  a  true  Hierarchy  and  Royalty, 
beginning  at  the  throne  of  God,  and  descending,  by 
sacred  stair,  let  down  from  heaven,  to  bless  and  keep  all 
the  Holy  creatures  of  God,  man  and  beast,  and  to  con- 
demn and  destroy  the  unholy.  And  in  this  Hierarchy 
and  Eoyalty  all  the  servants  of  God  have  part,  being 
made  priests  and  kings  to  Him,  That  they  may  feed 
His  people  with  food  of  angels  and  food  of  men ;  teach- 
ing the  word  of  God  with  power,  and  breaking  and  pour- 
ing the  Sacrament  of  Bread  and  Wine  from  house  to 
house,  in  remembrance  of  Christ,  and  with  gladness  and 
singleness  of  heart ;  the  priest's  function  at  the  altar  and 
in  the  tabernacle,  at  one  end  of  the  village,  being  only 
holy  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  deacon's  function  at  the 
table,  and  in  the  taberna,  at  the  other. 

And  so,  out  of  the  true  earthly  kingdom,  in  fulness  of 


ST.    GEORGE'S   GUILD.  195 

time,  shall  come  the  heavenly  kingdom,  when  the  taber- 
nacle of  God  shall  be  with  men ;  no  priest  needed  more 
for  ministry,  because  all  the  earth  will  be  temple  ;  nor 
bread  nor  wine  needed  more  for  mortal  food,  or  fading 
memory,  but  the  water  of  life  given  to  him  that  is 
athirst,  and  the  fruits  of  the  trees  of  healing.  —  Foi^s 
Clavigera,  letter  Ixxxiv. 


RUSKIN   THE   TEACHER   OF   ETHICS. 


This  is  the  thing  which  I  know  —  and  which,  if  you  labour  faith- 
fully, you  shall  know  also, — that  in  Reverence  is  the  chief  joy  and 
power  of  life;  —  Reverence,  for  what  is  pure  and  bright  in  your  own 
youth  ;  for  what  is  true  and  tried  in  the  age  of  others:  for  all  that  is 
gracious  among  the  living,  great  among  the  dead, — and  marvellous 
in  the  Powers  that  cannot  die.  —  Lectures  on  Art. 

PRELUDE. 

We  have  seen  the  same  great  Faith  pervading  all  the  phases 
of  the  work  of  Ruskin.  In  Nature,  he  beholds  the  vision  of  a 
Spirit  that  creates  and  controls  all  beauty :  in  Art,  he  pleads 
for  the  self-expression  of  the  soul  as  the  source  of  all  noble- 
ness and  truth :  in  Sociology,  lie  reiterates  with  earnestness 
unflinching  the  necessity  of  the  moral  law.  Thus  life  is  to  him 
one  harmonious  unity:  the  worship  of  man  inspired  by  the 
Sjiirit  of  God.  He  has  never  shrunk  from  proclaiming  un- 
popular truths  :  and  the  truths  to  which  his  nature  most  deeply 
responds  are  unpopular  in  our  generation.  In  an  age  that 
prides  itself  upon  independence,  he  has  proclaimed  the  neces- 
sity of  faithful  obedience  ;  at  a  time  when  the  thoughts  of  men 
were  wonderingly  arrested  by  tlie  vast  sweep  of  mechanical 
law,  he  has  proclaimed  the  vaster  sw^eep  of  life.  Alwa\^s,  in 
his  direct  moral  teachings,  we  find  him  fearlessly  practical. 
He  deals  little  with  theological  speculations :  to  questions  of 
creeds  he  oj)poses  the  answer  of  silence.  He  pleads  Avith 
stress  of  spirit  for  actual  work,  as  the  one  salvation  for  body 


BUSKIN    THE   TEACHER    OF  ETHICS.  197 

and  for  soul ;  and  with  stern  assurance  he  throws  on  our  piti- 
ful achievement  the  relentless  light  of  our  jjrofessed  convic- 
tion. Yet,  in  spite  of  all  the  evil  that  he  mourns  M'ith  the 
fervor  of  a  Hebrew  jjvophet,  he  never,  falters  in  his  belief  that 
human  life  is  meant  to  be  a  thing  of  grace  and  joy.  No  taint 
of  asceticism  is  upon  him ;  no  touch  of  morbid  craving  for  sacri- 
fice. Delight  in  the  works  of  God  is  to  his  thought  the  true 
destiny  of  man. 

Xot  without  struggle  has  Ruskin  kept  his  vision  clear. 
Doubt  was  not  native  to  him,  yet  upon  him  too  was  it  forced 
in  bewildered  daj^s.  But  the  struggle  had  meant  victory. 
Despite  his  reticence,  there  can  be  no  doubt  concerning  his 
own  essential  attitude.  In  his  eai'liest  and  his  latest  books 
alike  he  shows  a  high  serenity  of  spiritual  sight.  We  may  say 
of  him  in  the  noljle  words  which,  belonging  first  to  Browning, 
belong  also  to  every  race-seer,  from  Homer  to  Carlyle,  — 
*'  He  at  least  believed  in  Soul,  he  was  very  sure  of  God." 


198  JOHN  BUSKIN. 


THE   DAY   OF  LIFE. 

SupPOSiisTG  it  were  told  any  of  you  by  a  physician 
whose  word  you  could  not  but  trust,  that  you  had  not 
more  than  seven  days  to  live.  And  suppose  also  that, 
by  the  manner  of  your  education  it  had  happened  to 
you,  as  it  has  happened  to  many,  never  to  have  heard 
of  any  future  state,  or  not  to  have  credited  what  you 
heard ;  and  therefore  that  you  had  to  face  this  fact  of 
the  approach  of  death  in  its  simplicity ;  fearing  no 
punishment  for  any  sin  that  you  might  have  before 
committed,  or  in  the  coining  days  might  determine  to 
commit ;  and  having  similarly  no  hope  of  reward  for 
past,  or  yet  possible,  virtue ;  nor  even  of  any  conscious- 
ness whatever  to  be  left  to  you,  after  the  seventh  day 
had  ended,  either  of  the  results  of  your  acts,  to  those 
whom  you  loved,  or  of  the  feelings  of  any  survivors 
towards  you.  Then  the  manner  in  which  you  would 
spend  the  seven  days  is  an  exact  measure  of  the  moral- 
ity of  your  nature. 

I  know  that  some  of  you,  and  I  believe  the  greater 
number  of  you,  would,  in  such  a  case,  spend  the  granted 
days  entirely  as  you  ought.  Neither  in  numbering  the 
errors,  or  deploring  the  pleasures  of  the  past ;  nor  in 
grasping  at  vile  good  in  the  present,  nor  vainly  lament- 
ing the  darkness  of  the  future  ;  but  in  instant  and  ear- 
nest execution  of  whatever  it  might  be  possible  for  you 


THE  DAY  OF  LIFE.  199 

to  accomplish  in  the  time,  in  setting  your  affairs  in 
order,  and  in  j^roviding  for  the  future  comfort,  and  — ■ 
so  far  as  you  might  by  any  message  or  record  of  your- 
self, for  the  consolation  —  of  those  whom  you  loved, 
and  by  whom  you  desired  to  be  remembered,  not  for 
your  good,  but  for  theirs.  How  far  you  might  fail 
through  human  weakness,  in  shame  for  the  past,  despair 
at  the  little  that  could  in  the  remnant  of  life  be  accom- 
plished, or  the  intolerable  pain  of  broken  affection, 
would  depend  wholly  on  the  degree  in  which  your 
nature  has  been  depressed  or  fortified  by  the  manner  of 
your  past  life.  But  I  think  there  are  few  of  you  who 
would  not  spend  those  last  days  better  than  all  that  had 
preceded  them. 

If  you  look  accurately  through  the  records  of  the 
lives  that  have  been  most  useful  to  humanity,  you  will 
find  that  all  that  has  been  done  best,  has  been  done  so ; 
—  that  to  the  clearest  intellects  and  highest  souls,  —  to 
the  true  children  of  the  Father,  with  whom  a  thousand 
years  are  as  one  day,  their  poor  seventy  years  are  but  as 
seven  days.  The  removal  of  the  shadow  of  death  from 
them  to  an  uncertain,  but  always  narrow,  distance, 
never  takes  away  from  them  their  intuition  of  its 
approach  ;  the  extending  to  them  of  a  few  hours  more 
or  less  of  light  abates  not  their  acknowledgment  of  the 
infinitude  that  must  be  known  to  remain  beyond  their 
knowledge,  —  done  beyond  their  deeds  :  the  unprofitable- 
ness of  their  momentary  service  is  wrought  in  a  magnifi- 
cent despair,  and  their  very  honour  is  bequeathed  by 
them  for  the  joy  of  others,  as  they  lie  down  to  their 


200  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

rest,  regarding  for  themselves  the  voice  of  men  no 
more. 

The  best  things,  I  repeat  to  yoii,  have  been  done  thus, 
and  therefore,  sorroAvfully.  But  the  greatest  part  of 
the  good  work  of  the  world  is  done  either  in  pure  and 
unvexed  instinct  of  duty,  '  I  have  stubbed  Thornaby 
waste,'  or  else,  and  better,  it  is  cheerful  and  helpful 
doing  of  what  the  hand  finds  to  do,  in  surety  that  at 
evening  time,  whatsoever  is  right  the  Master  will  give. 
And  that  it  be  worthily  done,  depends  wholly  on  that 
ultimate  quantity  of  worth  which  you  can  measure,  each 
in  himself,  by  the  test  I  have  just  given  you.  For  that 
test,  observe,  will  mai'k  to  you  the  precise  force,  first  of 
your  absolute  courage,  and  then  of  the  energy  in  you  for 
the  right  ordering  of  things,  and  the  kindly  dealing 
with  persons.  You  have  cut  away  from  these  two 
instincts  every  selfish  or  common  motive,  and  left  noth- 
ing but  the  energies  of  Order  and  of  Love. 

Now,  where  those  two  roots  are  set,  all  the  other 
powers  and  desires  find  right  nourishment,  and  become 
to  their  own  utmost,  helpful  to  others,  and  pleasurable 
to  ourselves.  And  so  far  as  those  two  springs  of  action 
are  not  in  us,  all  other  powers  become  corrupt  or  dead  ; 
even  the  love  of  truth,  apart  from  these,  hardens  into  an 
insolent  and  cold  avarice  of  knowledge,  which,  unused, 
is  more  vain  than  unused  gold. 

These,  then,  are  the  two  essential  instincts  of  human- 
ity :  the  love  of  Order  and  the  love  of  Kindness.  By 
the  love  of  order  the  moral  energy  is  to  deal  with  the 
earth  and  to  dress  it,  and  keep  it ;  and  with  all  rebel- 


THE  BAY  OF  LIFE.  201 

lious  and  dissolute  forces  in  lower  creatures,  or  in  our- 
selves. By  the  love  of  doing  kindness,  it  is  to  deal 
rightly  with  all  surrounding  life.  And  then,  grafted  on 
these,  we  are  to  make  every  other  passion  perfect ;  so 
that  they  may  every  one  have  full  strength  and  yet  be 
absolutely  under  control. 

Every  one  must  be  strong,  every  one  perfect,  every 
one  obedient  as  a  war  horse.  And  it  is  among  the 
most  beautiful  pieces  of  mysticism  to  which  eternal 
truth  is  attached,  that  the  chariot  race,  which  Plato  uses 
as  an  image  of  moral  government,  and  which  is  indeed 
the  most  perfect  type  of  it  in  any  visible  skill  of  men, 
should  have  been  made  by  the  Greeks  the  continual 
subject  of  their  best  poetry  and  best  art.  Nevertheless, 
Plato's  use  of  it  is  not  altogether  true.  There  is  no 
black  horse  in  the  chariot  of  the  soul.  One  of  the 
driver's  worst  faults  is  in  starving  his  horses  ;  another, 
in  not  breaking  them  early  enough  ;  but  they  are  all 
good.  Take,  for  example,  one  usually  thought  of  as 
wholly  evil  —  that  of  Anger,  leading  to  vengeance.  I 
believe  it  to  be  quite  one  of  the  crowning  wickednesses 
of  this  age  that  we  have  starved  and  chilled  our  faculty 
of  indignation,  and  neither  desire  nor  dare  to  punish 
crimes  justly. 

All  true  justice  is  vindictive  to  vice  as  it  is  rewarding 
to  virtue.  Only  —  and  herein  it  is  distinguished  from 
personal  revenge  —  it  is  vindictive  of  the  Avrong  done, 
not  of  the  wrong  done  to  vs.  It  is  the  national  expres- 
sion of  deliberate  anger,  as  of  deliberate  gratitude  ;  it  is 
not  exemplary,  or  even  corrective,  but  essentially  retrib- 


202  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

utive;  it  is  the  absolute  art  of  measured  recompense, 
giving  lionour  where  honour  is  due,  and  shame  where 
shame  is  due,  and  joy  Avhere  joy  is  due,  and  pain  where 
pain  is  due.  .  .  .  But  in  this,  as  in  all  other  instances, 
the  rightness  of  the  secondary  passion  depends  on  its 
being  grafted  on  those  two  primary  instincts,  the  love 
of  order  and  of  kindness,  so  that  indignation  itself  is 
against  the  wounding  of  love.  Do  you  think  the  /'^»''? 
'^/(irjoc  came  of  a  hard  heart  in  Achilles,  or  the  ^Pallas 
te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas,''  of  a  hard  heart  in  Anchises'  son  ? 
And  now,  if  with  this  clew  through  the  labyrinth  of 
them,  you  remember  the  course  of  the  arts  of  great 
nations,  you  will  perceive  that  whatever  has  prospered, 
and  become  lovely,  had  its  beginning  —  for  no  other 
was  possible  —  in  the  love  of  order  in  material  things, 
associated  with  true  dlxuioavfrj,  and  the  desire  of  beauty 
in  material  things,  which  is  associated  with  true  affec- 
tion, charitas  ;  and  with  the  innumerable  conditions  of 
true  gentleness  expressed  by  the  different  uses  of  the 
words  /(^oig  and  gratia.  You  will  find  that  this  love  of 
beauty  is  an  essential  part  of  all  healthy  human  nature, 
and  though  it  can  long  co-exist  with  states  of  life  in 
many  other  respects  unvirtuous,  it  is  itself  wholly  good ; 
—  the  direct  adversary  of  envy,  avarice,  mean  worldly 
care,  and  especially  of  cruelty.  It  entirely  perishes 
when  these  are  wilfully  indulged ;  and  the  men  in 
whom  it  has  been  most  strong  have  always  been  com- 
passionate, and  lovers  of  justice,  and  the  earliest 
discerners  and  declarers  of  things  conducive  to  the 
happiness  of  mankind.  .  .  . 


THE  DAY   OF  LIFE.  203 

You  will  lind  further,  that  as  of  love,  so  of  all  the 
other  passions,  the  right  government  and  exaltation  be- 
gins in  that  of  the  Imagination,  which  is  lord  over  them. 
For  to  subdxie  the  passions,  which  is  thought  so  often  to 
be  the  sum  of  duty  respecting  them,  is  possible  enough 
to  a  proud  dulness ;  but  to  excite  them  rightly,  and 
make  them  strong  for  good,  is  the  work  of  the  unselfish 
imagination.  It  is  constantly  said  that  human  nature 
is  heartless.  Do  not  believe  it.  Human  nature  is  kind 
and  generous  ;  but  it  is  narrow  and  blind ;  and  can  only 
with  difficulty  conceive  anything  but  what  it  imme- 
diately sees  and  feels.  People  would  instantly  care 
for  others  as  well  as  themselves  if  only  they  could 
imagine  others  as  well  as  themselves.  Let  a  child  fall 
into  the  river  before  the  roughest  man's  eyes ;  —  he  will 
usually  do  what  he  can  to  get  it  out,  even  at  some  risk 
to  himself:  and  all  the  town  will  triumph  in  the  saving 
of  one  little  life.  Let  the  same  man  be  shown  that 
hundreds  of  children  are  dying  of  fever  for  want  of 
some  sanitary  measure  which  it  will  cost  him  trouble  to 
urge,  and  he  will  make  no  effort ;  and  probably  all  the 
town  would  resist  him  if  he  did.  So,  also,  the  lives  of 
many  deserving  women  are  passed  in  a  succession  of 
petty  anxieties  abgut  themselves,  and  gleaning  of  minute 
interests  and  mean  pleasures  in  their  immediate  circle, 
because  they  are  never  taught  to  make  any  effort  to 
look  beyond  it ;  or  to  know  anything  about  the  mighty 
world  in  which  their  lives  are  fading,  like  blades  of 
bitter  grass  in  fruitless  fields.  .  .  . 

I  press  to  the  conclusion  which  I  wish  to  leave  with 


204  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

you,  that  all  you  can  rightly  do,  or  honourably  become, 
depends  on  the  governinent  of  these  two  instincts  of 
order  and  kindness,  by  this  great  Imaginative  faculty, 
which  gives  you  inheritance  of  the  past,  grasp  of  the 
present,  authority  over  the  future.  Map  out  the  spaces 
of  your  possible  lives  by  its  help  ;  measure  the  range  of 
their  possible  agency  !  On  the  walls  and  towers  of  this 
your  fair  city,  there  is  not  an  ornament  of  which  the 
first  origin  may  not  be  traced  back  to  the  thoughts  of 
men  who  died  two  thousand  years  ago.  Whom  will  you 
be  governing  by  your  thoughts,  two  thousand  years 
hence  ?  Think  of  it,  and  you  will  find  that  so  far  from 
art  being  immoral,  little  except  art  is  moral;  that  life 
without  industry  is  guilt,  and  industry  without  art  is 
brutality  ;  and  for  the  words  '  good  '  and  '  wicked  '  used 
of  men,  you  may  almost  substitute  the  words  '  Makers  ' 
or  '  Destroyers.'  Far  the  greater  part  of  the  seeming 
prosperity  of  the  world  is,  so  far  as  our  present  knowl- 
edge extends,  vain :  wholly  useless  for  any  kind  of 
good,  but  having  assigned  to  it  a  certain  inevitable 
sequence  of  destruction  and  of  sorrow.  Its  stress  is 
only  the  stress  of  wandering  storm;  its  beauty,  the 
hectic  of  plague  :  and  what  is  called  the  history  of  man- 
kind is  too  often  the  record  of  the  whirlwind,  and  the 
map  of  the  spreading  of  the  leprosy.  But  underneath  all 
tliat,  or  in  narrow  spaces  of  dominion  in  the  midst  of  it, 
the  work  of  every  man  ^  qui  non  accepit  in  vanitateni 
anhnam  suamfi^  endures  and  prospers  ;  a  small  remnant 
or  green  bud  of  it  prevailing  at  last  over  evil.  And 
though  faint  with   sickness,  and   encumbered   in   ruin, 


THE  DAY    OF  LIFE.  205 

the  true  workers  redeem  inch  by  inch  the  Aviklerness 
into  garden  ground  ;  by  the  help  of  their  joined  hands 
the  order  of  all  things  is  surely  sustained  and  vitally 
expanded,  and  although  with  strange  vacillation,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  watcher,  the  morning  cometh,  and  also  the 
night,  there  is  no  hour  of  human  existence  that  does  not 
draw  on  towards  the  perfect  day. 

And  perfect  the  day  shall  be,  when  it  is  of  all  men 
understood  that  the  beauty  of  Holiness  must  be  in 
labour  as  well  as  in  rest.  ISlay  !  more,  if  it  may  be,  in 
labour ;  in  our  strength,  rather  than  in  our  weakness  ; 
and  in  the  choice  of  what  we  shall  work  for  through  the 
six  days,  and  may  know  to  be  good  at  their  evening 
time,  than  in  the  choice  of  what  we  pray  for  on  the 
seventh,  of  reward  or  repose.  With  the  multitude  that 
keep  holiday,  we  may  perhaps  sometimes  vainly  have 
gone  up  to  the  house  of  the  Lord,  and  vainly  there  asked 
for  what  we  fancied  would  be  mercy  ;  but  for  the  few 
who  labour  as  their  Lord  would  have  them,  the  mercy 
needs  no  seeking,  and  their  wide  home  no  hallowing. 
Surely,  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  them  all  the 
days  of  their  life  ;  and  they  shall  dwell  in  the  house  of 
the  Lord  —  fokever.  —  Lectures  on  Art,  sees.  83-96. 


206  JOHN  RUSKIN. 


KNOWLEDGE  AND   SPIEIT. 

Yet,  observe,  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  of  the  body  and 
soul  as  separable.  The  man  is  made  up  of  both  :  they 
are  to  be  raised  and  glorified  together,  and  all  art  is  an 
expression  of  one,  by  and  through  the  other.  All  that  I 
would  insist  upon,  is,  the  necessity  of  the  whole  man 
being  in  his  work;  the  body  must  be  in  it.  Hands  and 
habits  must  be  in  it,  whether  we  will  or  not ;  but  the 
nobler  part  of  the  man  may  often  not  be  in  it.  And 
that  nobler  part  acts  principally  in  love,  reverence,  and 
admiration,  together  with  tliose  conditions  of  thought 
which  arise  out  of  them.  For  we  usually  fall  into  much 
error  by  considering  the  intellectual  powers  as  having 
dignity  in  themselves,  and  separable  from  the  heart; 
w^hereas  the  truth  is,  that  tlie  intellect  becomes  noble 
and  ignoble  according  to  the  food  we  give  it,  and  the 
kind  of  subjects  with  which  it  is  conversant.  It  is  not 
the  reasoning  power  which,  of  itself,  is  noble,  but  the 
reasoning  power  occupied  with  its  proper  objects.  Half 
of  the  mistakes  of  metaphysicians  have  arisen  from  their 
not  observing  this;  namely,  that  the  intellect,  going 
through  the  same  process,  is  yet  mean  or  noble  accord- 
ing to  the  matter  it  deals  with,  and  wastes  itself  away 
in  mere  rotary  motion,  if  it  be  set  to  grind  straws  and 
dust.  If  we  reason  only  respecting  words,  or  lines,  or 
any  trifling  and  finite  things,  the  reason  becomes  a  con- 


KNOWLEDGE  AND  SPIRIT.  207 

temptible  faculty ;  but  reason  employed  on  holy  and 
infinite  things,  becomes  herself  holy  and  infinite.  .  .  . 
For  it  must  be  felt  at  once  that  the  increase  of  knowl- 
edge, merely  as  such,  does  not  make  the  soul  larger  or 
smaller ;  that,  in  the  sight  of  God,  all  the  knowledge 
man  can  gain  is  as  nothing,  but  that  the  soul,  ...  be  it 
ignorant  or  be  it  wise,  is  all  in  all,  and  in  the  activity, 
strength,  health,  and  well-being  of  this  soul,  lies  the  main 
difference,  in  His  sight,  between  one  man  and  another. 
And  that  which  is  all  in  all  in  God's  estimate  is  also,  be 
assured,  all  in  all  in  man's  labour,  and  to  have  the  heart 
open,  and  the  eyes  clear,  and  the  emotions  and  thoughts 
warm  and  quick,  and  not  the  knowing  of  this  or  the 
other  fact,  is  the  state  needed  for  all  mighty  doing  in 
this  world.  And  therefore,  finally,  for  this  the  weighti- 
est of  all  reasons,  let  us  take  no  pride  in  our  knowledge. 
We  may,  in  a  certain  sense,  be  proud  of  being  immortal ; 
we  may  be  proud  of  being  God's  children ;  we  may  be 
proud  of  loving,  thinking,  seeing,  and  of  all  that  we  are 
by  no  human  teaching:  but  not  of  what  we  have  been 
taught  by  rote;  not  of  the  ballast  and  freight  of  the  shij) 
of  the  spirit,  but  only  of  its  pilotage,  without  which  all 
the  freight  will  only  sink  it  faster,  and  strew  the  sea 
more  richly  with  its  ruin.  There  is  not  at  this  moment 
a  youth  of  twenty,  having  received  what  we  moderns 
ridiculously  call  education,  but  he  knows  more  of  every- 
thing, except  the  soul,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul  did  ;  but 
he  is  not  for  that  reason  a  greater  man,  or  fitter  for  his 
work,  or  more  fit  to  be  heard  by  others,  than  Plato  or  St. 
Paul.  —  Stones  of  Venice,  vol.  iii.  chap.  iv. 


208  JOHN  BUSKIN. 


LIBERTY  AND   OBEDIENCE. 

It  is  true  that  there  are  liberties  and  liberties.  Yon- 
der torrent,  crystal-clear,  and  arrow-swift,  with  its  spray 
leaping  into  the  air  like  white  troops  of  fawns,  is  free 
enough.  Lost,  presently,  amidst  bankless,  boundless 
marsh — soaking  in  slow  shallowness,  as  it  will,  hither 
and  thither,  listless,  among  the  poisonous  reeds  and 
unresisting  slime  —  it  is  free  also.  We  niay  choose 
which  liberty  we  like,  —  the  restraint  of  voiceful  rock, 
or  the  dumb  and  edgeless  shore  of  darkened  sand.  Of 
that  evil  liberty,  which  men  are  now  glorifying,  and  pro- 
claiming as  essence  of  gospel  to  all  the  earth,  and  will 
presently,  I  suppose,  proclaim  also  to  the  stars,  with 
invitation  to  them  out  of  their  courses,  —  and  of  its  op- 
posite continence,  which  is  the  clasp  and  /qvostj  ufoovij 
of  Aglaia's  cestus,  we  must  try  to  find  out  something 
true.  For  no  quality  of  Art  has  been  more  powerful  in 
its  influence  on  public  mind ;  none  is  more  frequently 
the  subject  of  popular  praise,  or  the  end  of  vulgar  effort, 
than  what  we  call  '  Freedom.'  It  is  necessary  to  deter- 
mine the  justice  or  injustice  of  this  popular  praise. 

I  said,  a  little  while  ago,  that  the  practical  teaching 
of  the  masters  of  Art  was  summed  by  the  0  of  Giotto. 
'You  may  judge  my  masterhood  of  craft,'  Giotto  tells 
us,  '  by  seeing  that  I  can  draw  a  circle  unerringly.' 
And  we  may  safely  believe  him,  understanding  him  to 


LIBERTY  AND    OBEDIENCE,  200 

mean,  that  —  though  more  may  be  necessary  to  an  artist 
than  such  a  power  —  at  least  this  power  is  necessary. 
The  qualities  of  hand  and  eye  needful  to  do  this  are  the 
first  conditions  of  artistic  craft. 

Try  to  draw  a  cin-le  yourself  with  the  "  free  "  hand, 
and  with  a  single  line.  You  cannot  do  it  if  your 
hand  trembles,  nor  if  it  hesitates,  nor  if  it  is  unmanage- 
able, nor  if  it  is  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word  "  free." 
So  far  from  being  free,  it  must  be  under  a  control  as 
absolute  and  accurate  as  if  it  were  fastened  to  an  in- 
flexible bar  of  steel.  And  yet  it  must  move,  under  this 
necessary  control,  with  perfect,  untormented  serenity  of 
ease. 

That  is  the  condition  of  all  good  work  whatsoever. 
All  freedom  is  error.  Every  line  you  lay  down  is  either 
right  or  wrong :  it  may  be  timidly  and  awkwardly  wrong, 
or  fearlessly  and  impudently  wrong :  the  aspect  of  the 
impudent  wrongness  is  pleasurable  to  vulgar  persons ; 
and  what  is  commonly  called  '  free '  execution :  the 
timid,  tottering,  hesitating  wrongness  is  rarely  so  attract- 
ive ;  yet  sometimes,  if  accompanied  with  good  qualities, 
and  right  aims  in  other  directions,  it  becomes  in  a  man- 
ner charming,  like  the  inarticulateness  of  a  child :  but, 
whatever  the  charm  or  manner  of  the  error,  there  is  but 
one  question  ultimately  to  be  asked  respecting  every  line 
you  draw.  Is  it  right  or  wrong  ?  If  right,  it  most  as- 
suredly is  not  a  '  free '  line,  but  an  intensely  continent, 
restrained,  and  considered  line  ;  and  the  action  of  the 
hand  in  laying  it  is  just  as  decisive,  and  just  as  'free,' 
as  the  hand  of  a  first-rate  surgeon  in  a  critical  incisioa 


210  JOHN   BUS  KIN. 

A  great  operator  told  me  that  his  hand  could  check  itself 
within  about  the  two-hundredth  of  an  inch,  in  penetrat- 
ing a  membrane  ;  and  this,  of  course,  without  the  help  of 
sight,  by  sensation  only.  With  help  of  sight,  and  in 
action  on  a  substance  which  does  not  quiver  nor  yield,  a 
fine  artist's  line  is  measurable  in  its  proposed  direction 
to  considerably  less  than  the  thousandth  of  an  inch. 

A  wide  freedom,  truly !  .  .  . 

I  believe  we  can  nowhere  find  a  better  type  of  a  per- 
fectly free  creature  than  in  the  common  house  fly.  Nor 
free  only,  but  brave  ;  and  irreverent  to  a  degree  which  I 
think  no  human  republican  could  by  any  philosophy 
exalt  himself  to.  There  is  no  courtesy  in  him  ;  he  does 
not  care  whether  it  is  king  or  clown  whom  he  teases  ; 
and  in  every  step  of  his  swift  mechanical  march,  and  in 
every  pause  of  his  resolute  observation,  there  is  one  and 
the  same  expression  of  perfect  egotism,  perfect  independ- 
ence and  self-confidence,  and  conviction  of  the  world's 
having  been  made  for  flies.  Strike  at  him  with  your 
hand;  and  to  him,  the  mechanical  fact  and  external 
aspect  of  the  matter  is,  what  to  you  it  would  be,  if  an 
acre  of  red  clay,  ten  feet  thick,  tore  itself  up  from  the 
ground  in  one  massive  field,  hovered  over  you  in  the  air 
for  a  second,  and  came  crashing  down  with  an  aim.  That 
is  the  external  aspect  of  it ;  the  inner  aspect,  to  his  fly's 
mind,  is  of  quite  natural  and  unimportant  occurrence  — ■ 
one  of  the  momentary  conditions  of  his  active  life.  He 
steps  out  of  the  way  of  your  hand,  and  alights  on  the 
back  of  it.  You  cannot  terrify  him,  nor  govern  him,  nor 
persuade  him,  nor  convince  him.     He  has  his  own  posi- 


LIBERTY  AND    OBEDIENCE.  211 

tive  opinion  on  all  matters  ;  not  an  nnwise  one,  usually, 
for  his  own  ends  ;  and  will  ask  no  advice  of  yours.  He 
has  no  work  to  do  —  no  tyrannical  instinct  to  obey.  The 
earthworm  has  his  digging ;  the  bee,  her  gathering  and 
building ;  the  spider,  her  cunning  net-work  ;  the  ant,  her 
treasury  and  accounts.  All  these  are  comparative  slaves, 
or  people  of  vulgar  business.  But  your  fly,  free  in  the 
air,  free  in  the  chamber  —  a  black  incarnation  of  caprice 
—  wandering,  investigating,  flitting,  flirting,  feasting  at 
his  will,  with  rich  variety  of  choice  in  feast,  from  the 
heaped  sweets  in  the  grocer's  window  to  those  of  the 
butcher's  back-yard,  and  from  the  galled  place  on  your 
cab-horse's  back  to  the  broAvn  spot  in  the  road,  from 
which  as  the  hoof  disturbs  him,  he  rises  with  angry 
republican  buzz  —  what  freedom  is  like  his  ? 

For  captivity  again,  perhaps  your  poor  watch-dog  is  as 
sorrowful  a  type  as  you  will  easily  And.  Mine  certainly 
is.  The  day  is  lovely,  but  I  must  write  this,  and  cannot 
go  out  with  him.  He  is  chained  in  the  yard,  because  I 
do  not  like  dogs  in  rooms,  and  the  gardener  does  not  like 
dogs  in  gardens.  He  has  no  books,  —  nothing  but  his 
own  weary  thoughts  for  company,  and  a  group  of  those 
free  flies,  whom  he  snaps  at,  with  sullen  ill  success.  Such 
dim  hope  as  he  may  have  that  I  may  yet  take  him  out 
with  me,  will  be,  hour  by  hour,  wearily  disappointed ;  or, 
worse,  darkened  at  once  into  a  leaden  despair  by  an 
authoritative  '  ISTo  '  —  too  well  understood.  His  fldelity 
only  seals  his  fate  ;  if  he  would  not  watch  for  me,  he 
would  be  sent  away,  and  go  hunting  with  some  happier 
master  :  but  he  watches,  and  is  wise,  and  faithful,  and 


212  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

miserable  :  and  his  liigli  animal  intellect  only  gives  him 
the  wistful  powers  of  wonder,  and  sorrow,  and  desire, 
and  affection,  which  embitter  his  captivity  !  Yet  of  the 
two,  would  we  rather  be  watch-dog,  or  fly  ? 

Indeed,  the  first  point  we  have  all  to  determine  is  not 
how  free  we  are,  but  what  kind  of  creatures  we  are.  It 
is  of  small  importance  to  any  of  us  whether  we  get 
liberty  ;  but  of  the  greatest  that  we  deserve  it.  Whether 
we  can  win  it,  fate  must  determine ;  but  that  we  may  be 
worthy  of  it,  we  may  ourselves  determine ;  and  the  sor- 
rowfullest  fate,  of  all  that  we  can  suffer,  is  to  have  it, 
without  deserving  it. 

I  have  hardly  patience  to  hold  my  pen  and  go  on  writ- 
ing, as  I  remember  (I  would  that  it  were  possible  for  a 
few  consecutive  instants  to  forget)  the  infinite  follies  of 
modern  thought  in  this  matter,  centred  in  the  notion 
that  liberty  is  good  for  a  man,  irrespectively  of  the  use 
he  is  likely  to  make  of  it.  Folly  unfathoma])le  !  unspeak- 
able !  unendurable  to  look  in  the  full  face  of,  as  the  laugh 
of  a  cretin.  You  will  send  your  child,  will  you,  into  a 
room  where  the  table  is  loaded  with  sweet  wine  and 
fruit  —  some  poisoned,  some  not  ?  — you  will  say  to  him, 
"  Choose  freely,  my  little  child !  It  is  so  good  for  you 
to  have  freedom  of  choice:  it  forms  your  character  — 
your  individuality  !  If  you  take  the  wrong  cup,  or  the 
wrong  berry,  you  will  die  before  the  day  is  over,  but  you 
will  have  acquired  the  dignity  of  a  Free  child"  ? 

You  think  that  puts  the  case  too  sharply  ?  I  tell  you, 
lover  of  liberty,  there  is  no  choice  offered  to  you,  but  it 
is  similarly  between  life  and  death.     There  is  no  act,  ncu- 


LIBERTY  A.XD   OBEDIENCE.  213 

option  of  act,  possible,  but  the  wrong  deed  or  option  has 
poison  in  it  which  will  stay  in  your  veins  thereafter  for- 
ever. Kever  more  to  all  eternity  can  you  be  as  you 
might  have  been,  had  yon  not  done  that  —  chosen  that. 
You  have  '  formed  your  character/  forsooth !  No  5  if 
yon  have  chosen  ill,  you  have  De-formed  it,  and  that  for- 
ever !  In  some  choices,  it  had  been  better  for  you  that 
a  red-hot  iron  bar  had  struck  you  aside,  scarred  and 
helpless,  than  that  you  had  so  chosen.  '  You  will  know 
better  next  time  ! '  ISTo.  ISText  time  will  never  come. 
Next  time  the  choice  will  be  in  quite  another  aspect  — 
between  quite  different  things,  —  you,  weaker  than  you 
were  by  the  evil  into  which  you  have  fallen ;  it,  more 
doubtful  than  it  was,  by  the  increased  dimness  of  your 
sight.  No  one  ever  gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong,  nor 
stronger.  You  will  get  wiser  and  stronger  only  by  doing 
right,  whether  forced  or  not ;  the  prime,  the  one  need  is 
to  do  that,  under  whatever  compulsion,  until  you  can  do 
it  without  compulsion.     And  then  you  are  a  Man, 

'What!'  a  wayward  youth  might  perhaps  answer,  in- 
credulously; 'no  one  ever  gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong  ? 
Shall  I  not  know  the  world  best  by  trying  the  wrong  of 
it,  and  repenting  ?  Have  I  not,  even  as  it  is,  learned  much 
by  many  of  my  errors  ?  '  Indeed,  the  effort  by  which 
partially  you  recovered  yourself  was  precious ;  that  part 
of  your  thought  by  which  you  discerned  the  error  was 
precious.  What  wisdom  and  strength  you  kept,  and 
rightly  used,  are  rewarded;  and  in  the  pain  and  the 
I'epentance,  and  in  the  acquaintance  with  the  aspects  of 
folly  and  sin,  you  have  learned  something  ;  how  much  less 


214  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

than  you  would  have  learned  in  right  paths,  can  never 
be  told,  but  that  it  is  less  is  certain.  Your  liberty  of 
choice  has  simply  destroyed  for  you  so  much  life  and 
strength,  never  regainable.  It  is  true  you  now  know 
the  habits  of  swine,  and  the  taste  of  husks  :  do  you 
think  your  father  could  not  have  taught  you  to  know 
better  habits  and  pleasanter  tastes,  if  you  had  stayed  in 
his  house  ;  and  that  the  knowledge  you  have  lost  would 
not  have  been  more,  as  well  as  sweeter,  than  that  you 
have  gained  ?  But  '  it  so  forms  my  individuality  to  be 
free  I '  Your  individuality  was  given  you  by  God,  and 
in  your  race ;  and  if  you  have  any  to  speak  of,  you  will 
want  no  liberty.  You  will  want  a  den  to  work  in,  and 
peace,  and  light  —  no  more,  —  in  absolute  need  ;  if  more 
in  any  Avise,  it  will  still  not  be  liberty,  but  direction, 
instrviction,  reproof,  and  sympathy.  But  if  you  have  no 
individuality,  if  there  is  no  true  character  nor  true  desire 
in  you,  then  you  will  indeed  want  to  be  free.  You  will 
begin  early;  and,  as  a  boy,  desire  to  be  a  man;  and,  as  a 
man,  think  yourself  as  good  as  every  other.  You  will 
choose  freely  to  eat,  freely  to  drink,  freely  to  stagger 
and  fall,  freely,  at  last,  to  curse  yourself  and  die.  Death 
is  the  only  real  freedom  possible  to  us  :  and  that  is'  con- 
summate freedom,  —  permission  for  every  particle  in  the 
rotting  body  to  leave  its  neighbour  particle,  and  shift  for 
itself.  You  call  it  "corruption"  in  the  flesh;  but  before 
it  comes  to  that,  all  libei'ty  is  an  equal  corruption  in 
niind.  You  ask  for  freedom  of  thought;  but  if  you  have 
not  sufficient  grounds  for  thought,  you  have  no  business 
to  think  ;  and  if  you  have  sufficient  grounds,  you  have 


LIBERTY  AND   OBEDIENCE.  215 

no  busiliess  to  tliink  wrong.  Only  one  thought  is  possi- 
ble to  you,  if  you  are  wise — your  liberty  is  geometri- 
cally proportionate  to  your  folly. 

'  But  all  this  glory  and  activity  of  our  age;  what  are 
they  owing  to,  but  to  our  freedom  of  thought  ? '  In  a 
measure,  they  are  owing — what  good  is  in  them  —  to 
the  discovery  of  many  lies,  and  the  escape  from  the 
power  of  evil.  Not  to  liberty,  but  to  the  deliverance 
from  evil  or  cruel  masters.  Brave  men  have  dared  to 
examine  lies  which  had  long  been  taught,  not  because 
they  were ^//-ee-thinkers,  but  because  they  were  such  stern 
and  close  thinkers  that  the  lie  could  no  longer  escape 
them.  Of  course  the  restriction  of  thought,  or  of  its 
expression,  by  persecution,  is  merely  a  form  of  violence, 
justifiable  or  not,  as  other  violence  is,  according  to  the- 
character  of  the  persons  against  whom  it  is  exercised, 
and  the  divine  and  eternal  laws  which  it  vindicates  or 
violates.  We  must  not  burn  a  man  alive  for  saying  that 
the  Athanasian  creed  is  ungrammatical,  nor  stop  a  bish- 
op's salary  because  we  are  getting  the  worst  of  an  argu- 
ment with  him;  neither  must  we  let  drunken  men  howl 
in  the  public  streets  at  night.  There  is  much  that  is 
true  in  the  part  of  Mr.  Mill's  essay  on  Liberty  which 
treats  of  freedom  of  thought ;  some  important  truths  are 
there  beautifully  expressed,  but  many,  quite  vital,  are 
omitted ;  and  the  balance,  therefore,  is  wrongly  struck. 
The  liberty  of  expression,  with  a  great  nation,  would 
become  like  that  in  a  well-educated  company,  in  which 
there  is  indeed  freedom  of  speech,  but  not  of  clamour ;  or 
like  that  in  an  orderly  senate,  in  which  men  who  deserve 


216  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

to  be  heard,  are  heard  in  due  time,  and  under  determined 
restrictions.  The  degree  of  liberty  you  can  rightly 
grant  to  a  number  of  men  is  in  the  inverse  ratio  of 
their  desire  for  it;  and  a  general  hush,  or  call  to  order, 
would  be  often  very  desirable  in  this  Eugland  of  ours. 
For  the  rest,  of  any  good  or  evil  extant,  it  is  impossible 
to  say  what  measure  is  owing  to  restraint,  and  what  to 
licence,  where  the  right  is  balanced  between  them.  .  .  . 

In  fine,  the  arguments  for  liberty  may   in  general  be 
summed  in  a  few  very  simple  forms  as  follows  :  — 

Misguiding  is  mischievous  :  therefore,  guiding  is. 

If  the  blind  lead  the  blind,  both  fall  into  the  ditch  : 
therefore,  nobody  should  lead  anybody. 

Lambs  and  fawns  should  be  left  free  in  the  fields ; 
much  more  bears  and  wolves. 

If  a  man's  gun  and  shot  are  his  own,  he  may  fire  in 
any  direction  he  pleases. 

A  fence  across  a  road  is  inconvenient ;  much  more,  one 
at  the  side  of  it. 

Babes  should  not  be  swaddled  with  their  hands  bound 
down  at  their  sides  :  therefore,  they  should  be  thrown  out 
to  roll  in  the  kennels  naked. 

None  of  these  arguments  are  good,  and  the  practical 
issues  of  them  are  worse.  For  there  are  certain  eternal 
laws  for  human  conduct  which  are  quite  clearly  discerni- 
ble by  human  reason.  So  far  as  these  are  discovered 
and  obeyed,  by  whatever  machinery  or  authority  the  obe- 
dience is  procured,  there  follow  life  and  strength.  So 
far  as  they  are  disobeyed,  by  whatever  good  intention 
the  disobedience  is  brought  about,  there  follow  ruin  and 


LIBERTY  AND   OBEDIENCE.  217 

sorrow.  And  th«  first  duty  of  every  man  in  the  world 
is  to  find  his  true  master,  and,  for  his  own  good,  submit 
to  him  ;  and  to  find  his  true  inferior,  and,  for  that  in- 
ferior's good,  conquer  him.  The  punishment  is  sure,  if 
we  either  refuse  the  reverence,  or  are  too  cowardly  and 
indolent  to  enforce  the  compulsion.  A  base  nation  cru- 
cifies or  poisons  its  wise  men,  and  lets  its  fools  rave  and 
rot  in  its  streets.  A  wise  nation  obeys  the  one,  restrains 
the  other,  and  cherishes  all.  —  The  Queen  of  the  Air,  sees. 
143-156. 

Wise  laws  and  just  restraints  are  to  a  noble  nation 
not  chains,  but  chain  mail  —  strength  and  defence, 
though  something,  also,  of  an  incumbrance.  And  this 
necessity  of  restraint,  remember,  is  just  as  honourable 
to  man  as  the  necessity  of  labour.  You  hear  every  day 
greater  numbers  of  foolish  people  speaking  about  liberty, 
as  if  it  were  such  an  honourable  thing;  so  far  from 
being  that,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  and  in  the  broadest  sense, 
dishonourable,  and  an  attribute  of  the  lower  creatures. 
Xo  human  being,  however  great  or  powerful,  was  ever 
so  fifee  as  a  fish.  There  is  always  something  that  he 
must,\or  must  not  do \^vhile  tlie  fish  may  doVvhatever 
he  lik«s.  All  the  kingdiDms  of  the  world  put  together 
are  notVialf  so  large  as  tliK  sea,  and  all  the  railroa)^  and 
wheels  ^Jiat  ever  were,  orSAvill  be,  invented  are^not 
so  easy  as  fins.  You  will  find,  on  fairly  thinking  of  it, 
that  it  is  his  Restraint  which  is  honourable  to  man,  not 
his  Liberty  ;  ai^i,  what  is  more,  it  is  restraint  which  is 
honourable  even  iiNthe  lower  animals.     A  butterfly  is 


218  .7-077iv^  euskin: 

much  more  free  tlian  a  bee ;  but  }■  ou  honour  the  bee 
more,  just  because  it  is  subject  to  certain  laws  which  fit 
it  for  orderly  function  in  bee  society.  And  throughout 
the  world,  of  the  two  abstract  things,  liberty  and  restraint, 
restraint  is  always  the  more  honourable.  It  is  true,  in- 
deed, that  in  these  and  all  other  matters  you  never  can 
reason  finally  from  the  abstraction,  for  both  liberty  and 
restraint  are  good  when  they  are  nobly  chosen,  and  both 
are  bad  when  they  are  basely  chosen  ;  but  of  the  two,  I 
repeat,  it  is  restraint  which  characterizes  the  higher 
creature,  and  betters  the  lower  creature  :  and,  from  the 
ministering  of  the  archangel  to  the  labour  of  the  insect, 
—  from  the  poising  of  the  planets  to  the  gravitation  of 
a  grain  of  dust,  —  the  power  and  glory  of  all  creatures, 
and  all  matter,  consist  in  their  obedience,  not  in  their 
freedom.  The  Sun  has  no  liberty  —  a  dead  leaf  has  much. 
The  dust  of  which  you  are  formed  has  no  liberty.  Its 
liberty  will  come  —  with  its  corruption.  —  The  Two 
Paths,  sec.  192. 


APHORISMS.  219 


APHORISMS. 

In  these  days  you  have  to  guard  against  the  fatallest 
darkness  of  the  two  opposite  Prides  —  the  Pride  of 
Faith,  which  imagines  that  the  Nature  of  the  Deity  can 
be  defined  by  its  convictions ;  and  the  Pride  of  Science, 
which  imagines  that  tlie  Energy  of  Deity  can  be  explained 
by  its  analysis.  —  Lectures  on  Art,  sec.  38. 

We  are  all  of  us  willing- enough  to  accept  dead  truths 
or  blunt  ones,  which  can  be  fitted  harmoniously  into 
spare  niches,  or  shrouded  and  coifined  at  once  out  of  the 
way,  we  holding  complacently  the  cemetery  keys,  and 
supposing  we  have  learned  something.  But  a  sapling 
truth,  with  earth  at  its  root  and  blossom  on  its  branches, 
or  a  trenchant  truth  that  can  cut  its  way  through  bars 
and  sods,  most  men,  it  seems  to  me,  dislike  the  sight  or 
entertainment  of,  if  by  any  means  such  guest  or  vision 
may  be  avoided.  And,  indeed,  this  is  no  wonder ;  for 
one  such  truth,  thoroughly  accepted,  connects  itself 
strangely  with  others,  and  there  is  no  saying  what  it 
may  lead  us  to.  —  The  Two  Paths,  preface. 

Almost  the  whole  system  and  hope  of  modern  life  are 
founded  on  the  notion  that  you  may  substitute  mechan- 
ism   for    skill,    photograph    for    picture,    cast-iron    for 


220  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

sculpture.  This  is  your  main  nineteenth  century  faith, 
or  infidelity.  You  tliink  you  can  get  everything  by 
grinding,  —  music,  literature,  and  painting.  You  will 
find  it  grievously  not  so;  you  can  get  nothing  but  dust 
by  mere  grinding.  Even  to  have  the  barley-meal  out  of 
it,  you  must  have  the  barley  first ;  and  that  comes  by 
growth,  not  grinding.  —  Lectures  on  Art,  sec.  100. 

I  wish  to  plead  for  your  several  and  future  considera- 
tion of  this  one  truth,  that  the  notion  of  Discipline  and 
Interference  lies  at  the  very  root  of  all  human  progress 
or  power ;  that  the  '  Let  Alone '  principle  is,  in  all 
things  which  man  has  to  do  with,  the  principle  of 
death ;  that  it  is  ruin  to  him,  certain  and  total,  if  he  lets 
his  land  alone  —  if  he  lets  his  fellow-men  alone  —  if  he 
lets  his  own  soul  alone.  —  A  Joy  Forever,  lect.  i. 

Human  work  must  be  done  honourably  and  thoroughly 
because  we  are  now  Men:  whether  we  ever  expect  to  be 
angels,  or  ever  were  slugs,  being  practically  no  matter. 
—  Fors  Clavigera,  letter  Ixxvi. 

I  think  that  every  rightly  constituted  mind  ought  to 
rejoice,  not  so  much  in  knowing  anything  clearly,  as  in 
feeling  that  there  is  infinitely  more  which  it  cannot 
know.  None  but  proud  or  weak  men  would  mourn  over 
this,  for  we  may  always  know  more  if  we  choose,  by 
working  on  ;  but  the  pleasure  is,  I  think,  to  humble 
people,  in  knowing  that  the  journey  is  endless,  the 
treasure  inexhaustible,  —  watching  the  cloud  still  march 


APHOBISMS.  221 

before  them  with  its  summitless  pillar,  and  being  sure, 
that,  to  the  end  of  time  and  to  the  length  of  eternity, 
the  mysteries  of  its  infinity  will  open  still  farther  and 
farther,  their  dimness  being  the  sign  and  necessary 
adjunct  of  their  inexhaustibleness. — Modern  Painters, 
vol.  iv.  part  v.  ch.  v. 

The  healthy  sense  of  progress,  which  is  necessary  to 
the  strength  and  happiness  of  men,  does  not  consist  in 
the  anxiety  of  a  struggle  to  attain  higher  place  or  rank, 
but  in  gradually  perfecting  the  manner,  and  accomplish- 
ing the  ends,  of  the  life  which  we  have  chosen,  or  which 
circumstances  have  determined  for  us. 

The  first  condition  under  which  education  can  be 
given  usefully  is,  that  it  should  be  clearly  understood  to 
be  no  means  of  getting  on  in  the  world,  but  a  means  of 
staying  pleasantly  in  your  place  there.  —  Time  and  Tide, 
letters  iv.,  xvi. 

I  don't  know  any  more  tiresome  flower  in  the  borders 
than  your  especially  '  modest '  snowdrop ;  which  one 
always  has  to  stoop  down  and  take  all  sorts  of  tiresome 
trouble  with,  and  nearly  break  its  poor  little  head  off, 
before  you  can  see  it ;  and  then,  half  of  it  is  not  worth 
seeing.  Girls  should  be  like  daisies  ;  nice  and  white, 
with  an  edge  of  red,  if  you  look  close  ;  making  the 
ground  bright  wherever  they  are  ;  knowing  simply  and 
quietly  that  they  do  it,  and  are  meant  to  do  it,  and  that 
it  would  be  very  wrong  if  they  didn't  do  it.  —  Ethics  oj 
the  Dust,  vii. 


222  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

One  thing  I  solemnly  desire  to  see  all  children  taiigh't 

—  obedience ;  and  one  to  all  persons  entering  into  life 

—  the    power   of   unselfish    admiration.  —  The    Eagle's 
Nest,  sec.  239. 

The  moment  a  man  can  really  do  his  work,  he  becomes 
speechless  about  it.     All  words  become  idle  to  him  —  all 
.  theories.  — Mystery  of  Life,  .sec.  120. 

Folded  hands  are  not  necessarily  resigned  ones.  The 
Patience  who  really  smiles  at  grief  usually  stands,  or 
walks,  or  even  runs :  she  seldom  sits.  —  Ethics  of  the 
Dust,  iv. 

There  are  three  things  to  which  man  is  born  — labour, 
and  sorrow,  and  joy.  Each  of  these  three  things  has  its 
baseness  and  its  nobleness.  There  is  base  labour,  and 
noble  labour.  There  is  base  sorrow,  and  noble  sorrow. 
There  is  base  joy,  and  noble  joy.  But  you  must  not 
think  to  avoid  the  corruption  of  these  things  by  doing 
without  the  things  themselves.  Nor  can  any  life  be 
.right  that  has  not  all  three.  Labour  without  joy  is  base.. 
Sorrow  without  labour  is  base.  Joy  without  labour  is 
base.  —  Time  and  Tide,  letter  v. 

The  will  of  God  respecting  us  is  that  we  shall  live  by 
each  other's  happiness,  and  life  ;  not  by  each  other's 
misery,  or  death.  A  child  may  have  to  die  for  its  par- 
ents ;  but  the  purpose  of  Heaven  is  that  it  shall  rather 
live  for  them; — that,  not  by   its  sacrifice,  b;it  by  its 


AFHORISMS.  223 

strength,  its  joy,  its  force  of  being,  it  shall  be  to  them 
renewal  of  strength ;  and  as  the  arrow  in  the  hand  of 
the  giant.  So  it  is  in  all  other  right  relations.  Men 
help  each  other  by  their  joy,  not  by  their  sorrow.  They 
are  not  intended  to  slay  themselves  for  each  other,  but 
to  strengthen  themselves  for  each  other.  —  Ethics  of  the 
Dust,  vi. 


224  JOHN  BUSKIN. 


LETTER   TO   YOUi^G   GIKLS. 

My  dear  Children,  —  The  rules  of  St.  George's 
Company  are  none  other  than  those  which,  at  your  bap- 
tism, your  godfather  and  godmother  promised  to  see 
that  you  should  obey  —  namely,  the  rules  of  conduct 
given  to  all  His  disciples  by  Christ,  so  far  as,  according 
to  your  ages,  you  can  understand  or  practise  them.  .  .  . 

St.  George's  first  order  to  j^ou,  supposing  you  were  put 
under  his  charge,  would  be  that  you  should  always,  in 
whatever  you  do,  endeavor  to  please  Christ ;  (and  He  is 
quite  easily  pleased  if  you  try  ;  )  but  in  attempting  this 
you  will  instantly  find  yourself  likely  to  displease  many  of 
your  friends  or  relations  ;  and  St.  George's  second  order 
to  you  is,  that  in  whatever  you  do,  you  consider  what  is 
kind  and  dutiful  to  them  also,  and  that  you  hold  it  for  a 
sure  rule  that  no  manner  of  disobedience  to  your  parents, 
or  of  disrespect  and  presumption  towards  your  friends, 
can  be  pleasing  to  God.  You  must  therefore  be  doubly 
submissive  ;  first  in  your  own  will  and  purpose  to  the 
law  of  Christ ;  then  in  the  carrying  out  of  your  purpose, 
to  the  pleasure  and  orders  of  the  persons  whom  He  has 
given  you  for  superiors.  And  you  are  not  to  submit  to 
them  sullenly,  but  joyfully  and  heartily,  keeping  never- 
theless your  own  purpose  clear,  so  soon  as  it  becomes 
proper  for  you  to  carry  it  out. 


LETTER    TO    YOUNG   GIRLS.  225 

Under  these  conditions,  here  are  a  few  of  St.  George's 
orders  for  you  to  begin  with :  — 

1st.  Keep  absolute  calm  of  temper,  under  all  chances ; 
receiving  everything  that  is  provoking  and  disagreeable 
to  you  as  coming  directly  from  Christ's  hand:  and  the 
more  it  is  like  to  provoke  you,  thank  Him  for  it  the 
more  :  as  a  young  soldier  would  his  general  for  trusting 
him  with  a  hard  place  to  hold  on  the  rampart.  And 
remember,  it  does  not  in  the  least  matter  what  happens 
to  you,  —  whether  a  clumsy  schoolfellow  tears  your  dress, 
or  a  shrewd  one  laughs  at  you,  or  the  governess  doesn't 
understand  you.  The  07ie  thing  needful  is  that  none  of 
these  things  should  vex  you.  For  your  mind  is  at  this 
time  of  your  youth  crystallizing  like  sugar-candy  ;  and 
the  least  jar  to  it  flaws  the  crystal,  and  that  permanently. 

2d.  Say  to  yourself  every  morning,  just  after  your 
prayers  :  "  Whoso  forsaketh  not  all  that  he  hath,  cannot 
be  my  disciple."  That  is  exactly  and  completely  true  : 
meaning  that  you  are  to  give  all  you  have  to  Christ  to 
take  care  of  for  you.  Then  if  He  doesn't  take  care  of  it, 
of  course  you  know  it  wasn't  worth  anything.  And  if  He 
takes  anything  from  you,  you  know  you  are  better  with- 
out it.  You  will  not  indeed,  at  your  age,  have  to  give  up 
houses,  or  lands,  or  boats,  or  nets ;  but  you  may  perhaps 
break  your  favorite  tea-cup,  or  lose  your  favorite  thimble, 
and  might  be  vexed  about  it,  but  for  this  second  St. 
George's  precept. 

3d.  What,  after  this  surrender,  you  find  intrusted  to 
you,  take  extreme  care  of,  and  make  as  useful  as  possible. 
The  greater  part  of  all  they  have  is  usually   given  tu 


226  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

grown-up  people  by  Christ,  merely  that  they  may 
give  it  away  again  :  but  school-girls,  for  the  most  part, 
are  likely  to  have  little  more  than  what  is  needed  for 
themselves  :  of  which,  whether  books,  dresses,  or  pretty 
room  furniture,  you  are  to  take  extreme  care,  looking  on 
yourself,  indeed,  practically,  as  a  little  housemaid  set  to 
keep  Christ's  books  and  room  in  order,  and  not  as  your- 
self the  mistress  of  anything. 

4th.  Dress  as  plainly  as  your  parents  will  allow  you: 
but  in  bright  colours,  (if  they  become  you,)  and  in  the 
best  materials,  —  that  is  to  say,  in  those  which  will  wear 
longest.  When  you  are  really  in  want  of  a  new  dress, 
buy  it  (or  make  it)  in  the  fashion ;  but  never  quit  an  old 
one  merely  because  it  has  become  unfashionable.  And 
if  the  fashion  be  costly,  you  must  not  follow  it.  You 
may  wear  broad  stripes  or  narrow,  bright  colours  or  dark, 
short  petticoats  or  long,  (in  moderation,)  as  the  public 
wish  you ;  but  you  must  not  buy  yards  of  useless  stuff 
to  make  a  knot  or  a  flounce  of,  nor  drag  them  behind  you 
over  the  ground.  And  your  walking  dress  must  never 
touch  the  ground  at  all.  I  have  lost  much  of  the  faith  I 
once  had  in  the  common  sense  and  even  in  the  personal 
delicacy  of  the  present  race  of  average  Englishwomen, 
'by  seeing  how  they  will  allow  their  dresses  to  sweep  the 
streets,  if  it  is  the  fashion  to  be  scavengers. 

5th.  If  you  can  afford  it,  get  your  dresses  made  by  a 
good  dressmaker,  with  utmost  attainable  precision  arid 
perfection  :  -but  let  this  good  dressmaker  be  a  poor  person, 
living  in  the  country ;  not  a  rich  person  living  in  a  large 
house  in  London.  .  .  . 


LETTER    TO    YOUNG   GIRLS.  22 


Z-i 


6th.  Learn  dressmaking  yourself,  with  pains  and  time  ; 
and  use  a  part  of  every  day  in  needlework,  making  as 
pretty  dresses  as  you  can  for  poor  people  who  have  not 
time  nor  taste  to  make  them  nicely  for  themselves.  You^ 
are  to  show  them  in  your  own  wearing  what  is  most 
right  and  graceful ;  and  to  help  them  to  choose  what  will 
be  prettiest  and  most  becoming  in  their  own  station.  If 
they  see  that  you  never  try  to  dress  above  yours  they 
will  not  try  to  dress  above  theirs.  .  .  . 

7th.  Never  seek  for  amusement,  but  be  always  ready 
to  be  amused.  The  least  thing  has  play  in  it  —  the  slight- 
est word,  wit,  when  your  hands  are  busy  and  your  heart 
is  free.  But  if  you  make  the  aim  of  your  life  amuse- 
ment, the  day  will  come  when  all  the  agonies  of  a  pan- 
tomime will  not  bring  to  you  an  honest  laugh.  Play 
actively  and  gayly ;  and  cherish,  without  straining,  the 
natural  powers  of  jest  in  others  and  yourselves ;  remem-. 
bering  all  the  while  that  your  hand  is  every  instant  on 
the  helm  of  the  ship  of  your  life,  and  that  the  Master, 
on  the  far  shore  of  Araby  the  Blest,  looks  for  its  sail  on 
the  horizon,  —  to  its  hour.  —  Now  that  it  is  '  considered 
improper '  by  the  world  that  you  should  do  anything  for 
Christ,  is  entirely  true,  and  always  true ;  and  therefore  it 
was  that  your  godfathers  and  godmothers,  in  your  name, 
renounced  the  "  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the  world,"  with 
all  covetous  desires  of  the  same  —  see  baptismal  service 
—  but  I  much  doubt  if  you,  either  privately  or  from  the 
pulpit  of  your  doubtless  charming  church,  have  ever 
been  taught  what  the  "  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the  world  " 
was. 


228  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

Well,  do  you  want  to  be  better  dressed  than  your 
sclioolfellows  ?  Some  of  them  are  probably  poor,  and 
cannot  afford  to  dress  like  you ;  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
you  may  be  poor  yourselves,  and  may  be  mortified  at 
their  being  dressed  better  than  you.  Put  an  end  to  all 
that  at  once,  by  resolving  to  go  down  into  the  deep  of 
your  girl's  heart,  where  you  will  find,  inlaid  by  Christ's 
own  hand,  a  better  thing  than  vanity  —  pity.  And  be 
sure  of  this,  that,  although  in  a  truly  Christian  land, 
every  young  girl  would  be  dressed  beautifully  and 
delightfully,  —  in  this  entirely  heathen  and  Bael-wor- 
shipping  land  of  ours,  not  one  girl  in  ten  has  either 
decent  or  healthy  clothing,  and  that  you  have  no  busi- 
ness now  to  wear  anything  fine  yourself,  but  are  bound 
to  use  your  full  strength  and  resources  to  dress  as  many 
of  your  poor  neighbours  as  you  can.  What  of  fine  dress 
your  people  insist  upon  your  wearing,  take  —  and  wear 
proudly  and  prettily,  for  their  sakes ;  but,  so  far  as  it  in 
you  lies,  be  sure  that  every  day  you  are  labouring  to 
clothe  some  poorer  creatures.  And  if  you  cannot  clothe, 
at  least  help,  with  your  hands.  You  can  make  your 
own  bed ;  wash  your  own  plate ;  brighten  your  own 
furniture,  —  if  nothing  else. 

'But  that's  servant's  work!'  Of  course  it  is.  What 
business  have  you  to  hope  to  be  better  than  a  servant  of 
servants  ?  '  God  made  you  a  lady  '  ?  Yes,  He  has  put 
you,  that  is  to  say,  in  a  position  in  which  you  may  learn 
to  speak  your  own  language  beautifully  ;  to  be  accu- 
rately acquainted  with  the  elements  of  other  languages  ; 
to  behave  with  grace,  tact,  and  sympathy  to  all  around 


LETTER    TO    YOUNG   GIRLS.  229 

you  ;  to  know  the  history  of  your  country,  the  commands 
of  its  religion,  and  the  duties  of  its  use.  If  you  obey 
His  will  in  learning  these  things,  you  will  obtain  the 
power  of  becoming  a  true  '  lady,'  and  you  will  become 
one.  if  while  you  learn  these  things  you  set  yourself, 
with  all  the  strength  of  your  youth  and  womanhood,  to 
serve  His  servants,  until  the  day  come  when  He  calls 
you  to  say,  '■  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant :  enter 
thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord.' 

You  may  thus  become  a  Christ's  lady,  or  you  may,  if 
^ou  will,  become  a  Belial's  lady,  taking  Belial's  gift  of 
miserable  idleness,  living  on  the  labour  and  shame  of 
others,  and  deceiving  them  and  yourself  by  lies  about 
Providence,  until  you  perish  with  the  rest  of  such, 
shrieking  the  bitter  cry,  '■  When  saw  we  Thee  ? ' 

You  may  become  a  Christ's  lady  if  you  will,  I  say ; 
but  you  viiist  will  vigorously  —  there  is  no  possible 
compromise.  Most  people  think,  if  they  keep  all  the 
best  rooms  in  the  house  swept  and  garnished  for  Christ, 
with  plenty  of  flowers  and  good  books  in  them,  that 
they  may  keep  a  little  chamber  in  their  heart's  wall  for 
Belial,  on  his  occasional  visits,  or  a  three-legged  stool 
for  him  in  the  heart's  counting-house,  or  a  corner  for 
him  in  the  heart's  scullery,  where  he  may  lick  the 
dishes.  It  won't  do,  my  dears  !  You  must  cleanse  the 
house  of  him,  as  you  would  of  the  plague,  to  the  last 
spot.  You  must  be  resolved  that  as  all  you  have  shall 
be  God's,  so  all  you  are  shall  be  God's ;  and  you  are  to 
make  it  so,  simply  and  quietly,  by  thinking  always  of 
yourself  merely  as  sent  to  do  His  work ;  and  considering 


230  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

at  every  leisure  time  what  you  are  to  do  next.  Don't ' 
fret  nor  tease  yourself  about  it,  far  less  other  peoi)le. 
Don't  wear  white  crosses,  nor  black  dresses,  nor  caps 
with  lappets.  Nobody  has  any  right  to  go  about  in  an 
offensively  celestial  uniform,  as  if  it  were  more  their 
business,  or  privilege,  than  it  is  everybody's,  to  be  God's 
servants.  Pkit,  know  and  feel  assuredly  that  every  day 
of  your  lives  you  have  done  all  you  can  for  the  good  of 
others.  Done,  I  repeat  —  not  said.  Help  your  com- 
panions, but  don't  talk  religious  sentiment  to  them ; 
and  serve  the  poor,  but,  for  your  lives,  you  little  mon- 
keys, don't  preach  to  them.  They  are  probably,  with- 
out in  the  least  knowing  it,  fifty  times  better  Christians 
than  you ;  and  if  anybody  is  to  preach,  let  tlteni.  Make 
friends  of  them  when  they  are  nice,  as  you  do  of  nice 
rich  people ;  feel  with  them,  work  with  them,  and  if 
you  are  not  at  last  sure  it  is  a  pleasure  to  you  both  to 
see  each  other,  keep  out  of  their  way.  For  material 
charity,  let  older  and  wiser  people  see  to  it ;  and  be 
content,  like  Athenian  maids  in  the  procession  of  their 
home-goddess,  with  the  honour  of  carrying  the  basket. 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.   R. 
—  Fors  Clavicjeva,  letters  Ixv.,  Ixvi. 


TRANCE.  231 


TEAXCE. 

This  intense  apathy  in  all  of  us  is  the  first  great  mys- 
tery of  life;  it  stands  in  the  way  of  every  perception, 
ever}^  virtue.  There  is  no  making  ourselves  feel  enough 
■astonishment  at  it.  That  the  occupations  or  pastimes  of 
life  should  have  no  motive,  is  understandable  ;  but  —  That 
life  itself  should  have  no  motive  — that  we  neither  care 
to  find  out  what  it  may  lead  to,  nor  to  guard  against  its 
being  forever  taken  away  from  us  —  here  is  a  mystery 
indeed.  For,  just  suppose  I  were  able  to  call  at  this 
moment  to  any  one  in  this  audience  by  name,  and  to  tell 
him  positively  that  I  knew  a  large  estate  had  been  lately 
left  to  him  on  some  curious  conditions  ;  but  that,  though 
I  knew  it  was  large,  I  did  not  know  how  large,  nor  even, 
■where  it  was  —  whether  in  the  East  Indies  or  the  West, 
or  in  England,  or  at  the  Antipodes.  I  only  knew  it  was 
a  vast  estate,  and  that  there  was  a  chance  of  his  losing 
it  altogether  if  he  did  not  soon  find  out  on  what  terms 
it  had  been  left  to  him.  Suppose  I  were  able  to  say 
■this  positively  to  any  single  man  in  this  audience,  and 
he  knew  that  I  did  not  speak  without  warrant,  do  you 
think  that  he  would  rest  content  with  that  vague  knowl- 
edge, if  it  were  anywise  possible  to  obtain  more? 
Would  he  not  give  every  energy  to  find  some  trace  of 
the  facts,  and  never  rest  till  he  had  ascertained  where 
this  place  was,  and  what  it  was  like  ?     And  suppose  he 


232  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

were  a  young  man,  and  all  he  could  discover  by  his  best 
endeavor  was,  that  the  estate  was  never  to  be  his  at  all 
unless  he  persevered  during  certain  years  of  probation, 
in  an  orderly  and  industrious  life;  but  that, 'according 
to  the  Tightness  of  his  conduct,  the  portion  of  the  estate 
assigned  to  him  would  be  greater  or  less,  so  that  it 
literally  depended  on  his  behaviour  from  day  to  day 
whether  he  got  ten  thousand  a  year,  or  thirty  thousand 
a  year,  or  nothing  Avhatever  —  would  you  not  think  it 
strange  if  the  youth  never  troubled  himself  to  satisfy 
the  conditions  in  any  way,  nor  even  to  know  what  was 
required  of  him,  but  lived  exactly  as  he  chose,  and  never 
inquired  whether  his  chances  of  the  estate  were  in- 
creasing or  passing  away?  Well,  jou  know  that  this 
is  actually  and  literally  so  with  the  greater  number  of 
the  educated  persons  now  living  in  Christian  countries. 
Nearly  every  man  and  woman,  in  any  company  such  as 
this,  outwardly  professes  to  believe  —  and  a  large  num- 
ber unquestionably  think  they  believe  —  much  more 
than  this  ;  not  only  that  a  quite  limited  estate  is  in 
prospect  for  them  if  they  please  the  Holder  of  it,  but 
that  the  infinite  contrary  of  such  a  possession — an 
estate  of  perpetual  misery,  is  in  store  for  them  if  they 
displease  this  great  Land-Holder,  this  great  Heaven- 
Holder.  And  yet  there  is  not  one  in  a  thousand  of  these 
human  souls  that  cares  to  think,  for  ten  minutes  of  the 
day,  where  this  estate  is,  or  how  beautiful  it  is,  or  what 
kind  of  life  they  are  to  lead  in  it,  or  what  kind  of  life 
they  must  lead  to  obtain  it.  —  The  Mystery  of  Life, 
sec.  108. 


WORLD'S    WORK.  233 


WORLD'S  WORK. 

Whenever  the  arts  and  labours  of  life  are  fulfilled  in 
this  spirit  of  striving  against  misrule,  and  doing  what- 
ever we  have  to  do,  honourably  and  perfectly,  they  inva- 
riably bring  happiness,  as  much  as  seems  possible  to  the 
nature  of  man.     In  all  other  paths,  by  which  that  happi- 
ness is  pursued,  there  is  disappointment,  or  destruction : 
for  ambition  and  for  passion  there  is  no  rest  —  no  frui- 
tion ;  the  fairest  pleasures  of  youth  perish  in  a  darkness 
greater  than  their  past  light ;  and  the  loftiest  and  purest 
love  too  often  does  but  inflame  the   cloud  of  life  witli 
endless   tire    of  pain.     But,    ascending   from   lowest   to 
highest,  through  every  scale  of  human  industry,  tliat  in- 
dustry worthily  followed,  gives  peace.    Ask  the  labourer 
in   the    field,    at   the   forge,  or   in    the    mine ;    ask    tlie 
patient,    delicate-fingered   artisan,  or  the  strong-armed, 
fiery-hearted  worker  in  bronze,  and  in  marble,  and  with 
the  colours  of  light ;   and  none  of  these,  who  are  true 
workmen,  will  ever  tell  you,  that  they  have  found  the 
law  of  heaven  an  unkind  one  —  that  in  the  sweat  of  their 
face  they  should  eat  bread,  till  they  return  to  the  ground; 
nor  that  they  ever  found  it  an  unrewarded  obedience,  if, 
indeed,  it  Avas    rendered  faithfully  to  the  command  — 
"  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it   with   thy 
might." 


2B4  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

There  are  the  U\~o  great  and  constant  lessons  which  onr 
labourers  teach  us  of  the  mystery  of  life.  But  there  is 
another,  and  a  sadder  one,  which  they  cannot  teach  us, 
which  they  must  read  on  their  tombstones. 

"■Do  it  with  thy  might."  There  have  been  myriads 
upon  myriads  of  human  creatures  who  have  obeyed  this 
law,  —  who  have  put  every  breath  and  nerve  of  their 
being  into  its  toil,  —  who  have  devoted  every  hour,  and 
exhausted  every  faculty, — who  have  bequeathed  their 
unaccomplished  thoughts  at  death,  —  who,  being  dead, 
have  yet  spoken  by  majesty  of  memory,  and  strength 
of  example.  And,  at  last,  what  has  all  this  "Might" 
of  humanity  accomplished,  in  six  thousand  years  of 
labour  and  sorrow  ?  What  has  it  do^ie  ?  Take  the 
three  chief  occupations  and  arts  of  men,  one  by  one, 
and  count  their  achievements.  Begin  with  the  first 
—  the  lord  of  them  all  —  agriculture.  Six  thousand 
years  have  passed  since  we  were  set  to  till  the  ground 
from  which  we  were  taken.  How  much  of  it  is 
tilled  ?  How  much  of  that  which  is,  wisely  or  well  ? 
In  the  very  centre  and  chief  garden  of  Europe  —  where 
the  two  forms  of  parent  Christianity  have  had  their  fort- 
resses—  where  the  noble  Catholics  of  the  Forest  Can- 
tons, and  the  noble  Protestants  of  the  Vaudois  valleys, 
have  maintained,  for  dateless  ages,  their  faiths  and  lib- 
erties, —  there  the  unchecked  Alpine  rivers  yet  run  wild 
in  devastation  :  and  the  marshes,  which  a  few  hundred 
meii  could  redeem  with  a  year's  labour,  still  blast  their 
helpless  inhabitants  into  fevered  idiotism.  That  is  so^ 
in  the  centre  of  Europe  !     While,  on  the  near  coast  of 


WORLD'S    WOIIK.  235 

Africa,  once  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides,  an  Arab 
woman,  but  a  few  sunsets  since,  ate  her  child  for 
famine.  And,  with  all  the  treasures  of  the  East  at  our 
feet,  we,  in  our  own  dominion,  could  not  find  a  few 
grains  of  rice  for  a  people  that  asked  of  us  no  more ; 
but  stood  by,  and  saw  live  hundred  thousand  of  them 
perish  of  hunger. 

Then,  after  agriculture,  the  art  of  kings,  take  the  next 
head  of  human  arts  —  weaving ;  the  art  of  queens, 
honoured  of  all  noble  Heathen  women,  in  the  person  of 
their  virgin  goddess  —  honoured  of  all  Hebrew  women, 
by  the  word  of  their  wisest  king :  "  She  layeth  her 
hands  to  the  spindle,  and  her  hands  hold  the  distaff;  she 
stretcheth  out  her  hand  to  the  poor.  She  is  not  afraid 
of  the  snow  for  her  household,  for  all  her  household  are 
clothed  with  scarlet.  She  maketh  herself  covering  of 
tapestry,  her  clothing  is  silk  and  purple.  She  maketh 
fine  linen,  and  selleth  it,  and  delivereth  girdles  to  the 
merchant."  What  have  we  done  in  all  these  thousands 
of  years  with  this  bright  art  of  Greek  maid  and  Christian 
matron  ?  Six  thousand  years  of  weaving,  and  have  we 
learned  to  weave  ?  Might  not  every  naked  wall  have 
been  purple  with  tapestry,  and  every  feeble  breast  fenced 
with  sweet  colors  from  the  cold  ?  What  have  we  done  ? 
Our  fingers  are  too  few,  it  seems,  to  twist  together  some 
poor  covering  for  our  bodies.  We  set  our  streams  to 
work  for  us.  and  choke  the'  air  with  fire,  to  turn  our 
spinning-wheels  —  and,  —  are  we  yet  clothed ?  Are  not  the 
streets  of  the  capitals  of  Europe  foul  with  the  sale  of 
cast  clouts  and  rotten  rags  ?     Is  not  the  beauty  of  your 


236  JOHN   BUSKIN. 

sweet  cliildren  left  in  wretchedness  of  disgrace,  while, 
with  better  honour,  nature  clothes  the  brood  of  the  bird 
in  its  nest,  and  the  suckling  of  the  wolf  in  her  den  ? 
And  does  not  every  winter's  snow  robe  what  you  have 
not  robed,  and  shroud  what  you  have  not  shrouded ;  and 
every  winter's  wind  bear  up  to  heaven  its  wasted 
souls,  to  witness  against  you  hereafter,  by  the  voice 
of  their  Christ,  ^^ "  I  was  naked,  and  ye  clothed  me 
not"? 

Lastly,  take  the  Art  of  Building  —  the  strongest, 
proudest,  most  orderly,  most  enduring  of  the  arts  of 
man,  that  of  which  the  produce  is  in  the  surest  manner 
accumulative,  and  need  not  perish,  or  be  replaced ;  but  if 
once  well  done,  will  stand  more  strongly  than  the  unbal- 
anced rocks  —  more  prevalently  than  the  crumbling  hills. 
The  art  which  is  associated  with  all  civic  pride  and 
sacred  principle ;  with  which  men  record  their  power, 
satisfy  their  enthusiasm,  make  sure  their  defence, 
define  and  make  dear  their  habitation.  And,  in  six  thou- 
sand years  of  building,  what  have  we  done  ?  Of  tlie 
greater  part  of  all  that  skill  and  strength,  no  vestige  is 
left,  but  fallen  stones  that  encumber  the  fields  and  im- 
pede the  streams.  But,  from  this  waste  of  disorder,  and 
of  time  and  of  rage,  what  is  left  to  us  ?  Constructive 
and  progressive  creatures,  that  we  are,  with  ruling  brains, 
and  forming  hands,  capable  of  fellowship,  and  thirsting 
for  fame,  can  we  not  contend,  in  comfort,  with  the  in- 
sects of  the  forest,  or,  in  achievement,  with  the  worm  of 
the  sea?  The  white  surf  rages  in  vain  against  the  ram- 
parts built  by  poor  atoms  of  scarcely  nascent  life  ;  but 


WORLD'S    WORK.  237 

only  ridges  of  formless  ruin  mark  the  places  where  one? 
dwelt  our  noblest  multitudes.  The  ant  and  the  moth 
have  cells  for  each  of  their  young,  but  our  little  ones  lie 
in  festering  heaps,  in  homes  that  consume  them  like 
graves  ;  and  night  by  night,  from  the  corners  of  our 
streets,  rises  up  the  cry  of  the  homeless  —  "I  was  a 
stranger,  and  ye  took  me  not  in."  .  .  . 

Is  there  but  one  day  of  judgment  ?  Why,  for  us 
every  day  is  a  day  of  judgment,  —  every  day  is  a  Dies 
Irse,  and  writes  its  irrevocable  verdict  in  the  flame  of 
its  West.  Think  you  that  judgment  waits  till  the  doors 
of  the  grave  are  opened  ?  It  waits  at  the  doors  of  your 
houses,  — it  waits  at  the  corners  of  your  streets  ;  we  are 
in  the  midst  of  judgment,  the  insects  that  we  crush  are 
our  judges,  the  moments  we  fret  away  are  our  judges, 
the  elements  that  feed  us,  judge,  as  they  minister,  — 
and  the  pleasures  that  deceive  us,  judge  as  they  indulge. 
Let  us,  for  our  lives,  do  the  work  of  Men  while  we  bear 
the  Form  of  them,  if  indeed  those  lives  are  Not  as  a  vapor, 
and  do  JVot  vanish  away. 

"  The  work  of  men  "  —  and  what  is  that  ?  Well,  we 
may  any  of  us  know  very  quickly,  on  the  condition  of 
being  wholly  ready  to  do  it.  But  many  of  us  are  for  the 
most  part  thinking,  not  of  what  we  are  to  do,  but  of 
what  we  are  to  get ;  and  the  best  of  us  are  sunk  into  the 
sin  of  Ananias,  and  it  is  a  mortal  one  —  we  want  to  keep 
back  part  of  the  price  ;  and  we  continually  talk  of  taking 
up  our  cross,  as  if  the  only  harm  in  a  cross  was  the 
tceif/ht  of  it  —  as  if  it  was  only  a  thing  to  be  carried  in- 
stead of  to  be  —  crucified  upon.     "  They  that  are  His 


238  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

have  crucified  the  flesh,  witli  the  affections  and  lusts." 
Does  tliat  mean,  think  you,  that  in  time  of  national  dis- 
'tress,  of  religious  trial,  of  crisis  for  every  interest  and 
hope  of  humanity — none  of  us  will  cease  jesting,  none 
cease  idling,  none  put  themselves  to  any  wholesome 
work,  none  take  so  much  as  a  tag  of  lace  off  their  foot- 
man's coats,  to  save  the  world  ?  Or  does  it  rather  mean, 
that  they  are  ready  to  leave  houses,  lands,  and  kindreds  — 
yes,  and  life,  if  need  be  ?  Life  !  —  some  of  us  are  ready 
enough  to  throw  that  away,  joyless  as  we  have  made  it. 
But  '^station  in  Life,"  how  many  of  us  are  ready  to  quit 
that?  Is  it  not  always  the  great  objection,  where  there 
is  question  of  finding  something  useful  to  do,  "  We 
cannot  leave  our  stations  in  life  "  ? 

Those  of  us  who  really  cannot  —  that  is  to  say,  who 
can  only  maintain  themselves  by  continuing  in  some 
business  or  salaried  office,  have  already  something  to  do ; 
and  all  that  they  have  to  see  to,  is  that  they  do  it  hon- 
estly and  with  all  their  might.  But  with  most  people 
who  use  that  apology,  "  remaining  in  the  station  of  life 
to  which  Providence  has  called  them,"  means  keeping  all 
the  carriages,  and  all  the  footmen  and  large  houses  they 
can  possibly  pay  for ;  and,  once  for  all,  I  say  that  if  ever 
Providence  did  put  them  into  stations  of  that  sort  — 
which  is  not  at  all  a  matter  of  certainty  —  Providence  is 
just  now  very  distinctly  calling  them  out  again.  Levi's 
station  in  life  was  the  receipt  of  custom  ;  and  Peter's,  the 
shore  of  Galilee ;  and  Paul's,  the  antechambers  of  the 
High  Priest,  —  which  "station  in  life  "  each  had  to  leave,  , 
with  brief  notice. 


WORLD'S    WORK.  239 

And,  whatever  our  station  in  life  may  be,  at  this  crisis, 
those  of  ns  who  mean  to  fulfil  our  duty  ought,  first,  to 
live  on  as  little  as  we  can ;  and,  secondly,  to  do  all  the 
wholesome  work  for  it  we  can,  and  to  spend  all  we  can 
spare  in  doing  all  the  sure  good  we  can. 

And  sure  good  is  lirst  in  feeding  people,  then  in  dress- 
ing people,  then  in  lodging  people,  and  lastly  in  rightly 
pleasing  people,  with  arts,  or  sciences,  or  any  other  sub- 
ject of  thought. 

I  say  first  in  feeding  ;  and,  once  for  all,  do  not  let 
yourselves  be  deceived  by  any  of  the  common  talk  of 
"  indiscriminate  charity."  The  order  to  us  is  not  to  feed 
the  deserving  hungry,  nor  the  industrious  hungry,  nor 
the  amiable  and  well-intentioned  hungry;  but  simply  to 
feed  the  hungry.  It  is  quite  true,  infallibly  true,  that  if 
any  man  will  not  work,  neither  should  he  eat,  —  think  of 
that,  and  every  time  you  sit  down  to  your  dinner,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  say  solemnly,  before  you  ask  a  blessing, 
"  How  much  work  have  I  done  to-day  for  my  dinner  ?  " 
But  the  proper  way  to  enforce  that  order  on  those  below 
you,  as  well  as  on  yourselves,  is  not  to  leave  vagabonds 
and  honest  people  to  starve  together,  but  very  distinctly 
to  discern  and  seize  your  vagabond ;  and  shut  your  vaga- 
bond up  out  of  honest  people's  way,  and  very  sternly 
then  see  that,  until  he  has  worked,  he  does  7iot  eat.  But 
the  first  thing  is  to  be  sure  you  have  the  food  to 
give ;  and,  therefore,  to  enforce  the  organization  of  vast 
activities  in  agriculture  and  in  commerce,  for  the  pro- 
duction of  the  wholesomest  food,  and  proper  storing  and 
"distribution  of  it,  so  that  no  famine  shall  any  more  be 


240  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

possible  among  civilized  beings.  There  is  plenty  of 
work  in  this  business  alone,  and.  at  once,  for  any  number 
of  people  who  like  to  engage  in  it. 

Secondly,  dressing  people  —  that  is  to  say,  urging 
every  one  within  reach  of  your  influence  to  be  always 
neat  and  clean,  and  giving  them  means  of  being  so.  In 
so  far  as  they  absolutely  refuse,  you  must  give  up  the 
effort  with  respect  to  them,  only  taking  care  that  no 
children  within  your  sphere  of  influence  shall  any  more 
be  brought  up  with  such  habits ;  and  that  every  person 
who  is  willing  to  dress  with  propriety  shall  have 
encouragement  to  do  so.  And  the  first  absolutely  ne- 
cessary step  towards  this  is  the  gradual  adoption  of  a 
consistent  dress  for  different  ranks  of  persons,  so  that 
their  rank  shall  be  known  by  their  dress ;  and  the  re- 
striction of  the  changes  of  fashion  within  certain  limits. 
All  which  appears  for  the  present  quite  impossible ;  but 
it  is  only  so  far  even  difficult,  as  it  is  difficult  to  con- 
quer our  vanity,  frivolity,  and  desire  to  appear  what  we 
are  not.  And  it  is  not,  nor  ever  shall  be,  creed  of  mine, 
that  these  mean  and  shallow  vices  are  unconquerable  by 
Cliristian  women. 

And  then,  thirdly,  lodging  people,  which  you  may 
think  should  have  been  put  first,  but  I  put  it  third,  be-, 
cause  Ave  must  feed  and  clothe  people  where  we  find 
them,  and  lodge  them  afterwards.  And  providing  lodg- 
ment for  them  means  a  great  deal  of  vigorous  legislation, 
and  cutting  down  of  vested  interests  that  stand  in  the 
way ;  and  after  that,  or  before  that,  so  far  as  we  can  get 
it,''through  sanitary  and  remedial  action  in  the  houses 


WORLD- S    WORK.  241 

that  we  have  ;  and  then  the  building  of  more,  strongly, 
beautifully,  and  in  groups  of  limited  extent,  kept  in  pro- 
portion to  their  streams,  and  walled  round,  so  that  there 
may  be  no  festering  and  wretched  suburb  anywhere,  but 
clean  and  busy  street  within,  and  open  country  without, 
with  a  belt  of  beautifvil  garden  and  orchard  round  the 
walls,  so  that  from  any  part  of  the  city,  perfectly  fresh 
air  and  grass,  and  sight  of  far  horizon  might  be  reach- 
able in  a  few  minutes'  walk.  This  the  hnal  aim  ;  but  in 
immediate  action  every  minor  and  possible  good  to  be 
instantly  done,  when,  and  as,  we  can  ;  roofs  mended  that 
have  holes  in  them,  fences  patched  that  have  gaps  in 
them,  walls  buttressed  that  totter,  and  floors  propped 
that  shake  ;  cleanliness  and  order  enforced  with  our  own 
hands  and  eyes,  till  we  are  breathless,  every  day.  And 
all  the  fine  arts  will  healthily  follow.  I  myself  have 
washed  a  flight  of  stone  stairs  all  down,  with  bucket  and 
broom,  in  a  Savoy  inn,  where  they  hadn't  washed  their 
stairs  since  they  first  went  up  them  ;  and  I  never  made 
a  better  sketch  than  that  afternoon. 

These,  then,  are  the  three  first  needs  of  civilized  life ; 
and  the  law  for  every  Christian  man  and  woman  is,  that 
they  shall  be  in  direct  service  towards  one  of  these  three 
needs,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  their  own  special 
occupation,  and  if  they  have  no  special  business,  then 
wholly  in  one  of  these  services.  And  out  of  such  exer- 
tion in  plain  duty  all  other  good  will  come  ;  for  in  this 
direct  contention  with  material  evil,  you  will  find  out  the 
real  nature  of  all  evil ;  you  will  discern  by  the  various 
kinds  of  resistance,  what  is  really  the  fault  and  main 


242  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

antagonism  to  good ;  also  you  will  find  tlie  most  unex- 
pected helps  and  profound  lessons  given,  and  truths  will 
come  thus  down  to  us,  which  the  speculation  of  all  our 
lives  would  never  have  raised  us  up  to.  You  will  find 
nearly  every  educational  problem  solved,  as  soon  as  you 
truly  want  to  do  somethiug;  everybody  will  become  of 
use  in  their  own  fittest  way,  and  will  learn  what  is  best 
for  them  to  know  in  that  use.  Competitive  examination 
will  then,  and  not  till  then,  be  wholesome,  because  it  will 
be  daily,  and  calm,  and  in  practice ;  and  on  these  familiar 
arts,  and  minute,  but  certain  and  serviceable  knowledges, 
wiir  be  surely  edified  and  sustained  the  greater  arts  and 
splendid  theoretical  sciences. 

But  much  more  than  this.  On  such  holy  and  simple 
practice  will  be  founded,  indeed,  at  last,  an  infallible 
religion.  The  greatest  of  all  the  mysteries  of  life,  and 
the  most  terrible,  is  the  corruption  of  even  the  siucerest 
religion,  which  is  not  daily  founded  on  rational,  effective, 
humble,  and  helpful  action.  Helpful  action,  observe ! 
for  there  is  just  one  law,  which  obeyed,  keeps  all  reli- 
gions pure ;  forgotten,  makes  them  all  false.  Whenever 
in  any  religious  faith,  dark  or  bright,  we  allow  our 
minds  to  dwell  upon  the  points  in  which  we  differ  from 
other  people,  we  are  wrong,  and  in  the  devil's  power. 
That  is  the  essence  of  the  Pharisee's  thanksgiving:, 
"Lord,  I  thank  thee  that  I  am  not  as  other  men  are." 
At  every  moment  of  our  lives  we  should  be  trying  to  find 
out,  not  in  what  we  differ  from  other  people,  but  in  what 
we  agree  with  them  ;  and  the  moment  we  find  we  can 
agree  as  to  anything  that  should  be  done,  kind  or  good, 


WOULD 's  WORK.  243 

(and  who  but  fools  couldn't  ?  )  tlien  do  it ;  push  at  it  to- 
gether ;  you  can't  quarrel  in  a  side-by-side  push ;  but  the 
moment  that  even  the  best  men  stop  pushing,  and  begin 
talking,  they  mistake  their  pugnacity  for  piety,  and  it's 
all  over.  —  The  Mystery  of  Life,  sees.  128-140. 


244  JOHN  RUSKIN. 


WORLD'S  WOKTH. 

Every  seventh  day,  if  not  oftener,  the  greater  number 
of  well-meaning  people  in  England  thankfully  receive 
from  their  teachers  a  benediction,  couched  in  these 
terms  :  ''  The  Grace  of  our  Lord  Christ,  and  the  Love 
of  God,  and  the  Fellowship  of  the  Holy  Ghost  be  with 
you."  Kow  I  do  not  know  precisely  what  sense  is 
attached,  in  the  English  public  mind,  to  these  expres- 
sions. But  what  I  have  to  tell  you  positively  is,  that 
the  three  things  do  actually  exist,  and  can  be  known  if 
you  care  to  know  them,  and  possessed  if  you  care  to 
possess  them  ;  and  that  another  thing  exists,  besides 
these,  of  which  we  already  know  too  much. 

First,  by  simply  obeying  the  orders  of  the  Founder  of 
your  religion,  all  grace,  graciousness,  or  beauty  and 
favour  of  gentle  life,  will  be  given  to  you  in  mind  and 
body,  in  work  and  in  rest.  The  Grace  of  Christ  exist.-, 
and  can  be  had  if  you  will.  Secondly,  as  you  know 
more  and  more  of  the  created  world,  you  will  find  that 
the  true  vvill  of  its  Maker  is  that  its  creatures  should  be 
happj^ ;  that  He  has  made  everything  beautiful  in  its 
time  and  its  i)lace,  and  that  it  is  chiefly  by  the  fault  of 
men,  when  they  are  allowed  the  liberty  of  thwarting 
His  laws,  that  Creation  groans  and  travails  in  pain. 
The  Love  of  God  exists,  and  you  may  see  it  and  live 
in  it  if  you  will.     Lastly,  a  Spirit  does  actually  exist 


WORLD'S    ]VORTH.  245 

wliich  teaches  the  ant  her  path  ;  the  bird,  lier  buihling; 
and  men,  in  an  instinctive  and  marvellous  way,  what- 
ever lovely  arts  and  noble  deeds  are  possible  to  them. 
Without  it,  you  can  do  no  good  tiling.  To  the  grief  of 
it,  you  can  do  many  bad  ones.  In  the  possession  of  it,  is 
your  peace  and  your  power. 

And  there  is  a  fourth  thing  of  which  we  already  know 
too  much.  There  is  an  evil  spirit  whose  dominion  is  in 
blindness  and  cowardice,  as  the  dominion  of  the  Spirit 
of  wisdom  is  in  clear  sight  and  in  courage. 

And  this  blind  and  cowardly  spirit  is  forever  telling 
you  that  evil  things  are  pardonable,  and  you  shall  not 
die  for  them,  and  that  good  things  are  impossible,  and 
you  need  net  live  for  them;  and  that  gospel  of  his  is 
now  the  loudest  that  is  preached  in  your  Saxon  tongue. 
You  will  find  some  day,  to  your  cost,  if  you  believe  the 
first  part  of  it,  that  it  is  not  true  ;  but  you  may  never, 
if  you  believe  the  second  part  of  it,  find,  to  your  gain, 
that  also,  untrue;  and  therefore,  I  pray  you  with  all 
earnestness  to  prove,  and  know  within  your  hearts,  that 
all  things  lovely  and  righteous  are  possible  for  those 
who  believe  in  their  possibility,  and  who  determine 
that,  for  their  part,  they  will  make  every  day's  work  con- 
tribute to  them.  Let  every  dawn  of  morning  be  to  you  as 
the  beginning  of  life,  and  every  setting  sun  be  to  you  as 
its  close:  —  then  let  every  one  of  these  short  lives  leave 
its  record  of  some  kindly  thing  done  for  others  —  some 
goodly  strength  or  knowledge  gained  for  yourselves  ;  so, 
from  day  to  day,  and  strength  to  strength,  you  shall 
build  up  indeed,  by  Art,  by  Thought,  and  by  Just  Will, 


246  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

an  Ecclesia  of  England,  of  which  it  shall  not  be  said, 
"  See  what  manner  of  stones  are  here,"  bnt  "  See  what 
manner  of  men."  —  Lectures  on  Art,  sec.  125. 

Those  of  you  who  still  go  to  chapel  say  every  day 
your  creed.  .  .  .  ]S"ow,  you  may  cease  to  believe  two 
articles  of  it,  and  —  admitting  Christianity  to  be  true  — 
still  be  forgiven.  But  I  can  tell  you,  you  must  not 
cease  to  believe  the  third  ! 

You  begin  by  saying  that  you  believe  in  an  Almighty 
Father.  Well,  you  may  entirely  lose  the  sense  of  that 
Fatherhood,  and  yet  be  forgiven. 

You  go  on  to  say  that  you  believe  in  a  Saviour  Son. 
You  may  entirely  lose  the  sense  of  that  Sonship,  and 
yet  be  forgiven. 

But  the  third  article — disbelieve  if  you  dare!  "I 
believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  Lord  and  Giver  of  Life." 

Disbelieve  that,  and  your  own  being  is  degraded  into 
the  state  of  dust  driven  by  the  wind;  and  the  elements 
of  dissolution  have  entered  your  very  heart  and  soul. 

All  Nature  with  one  voice,  with  one  glory,  is  set  to 
teach  you  reverence  for  the  life  communicated  to  you 
from  the  Father  of  Spirits.  The  song  of  birds,  and 
their  plumage  ;  the  scent  of  flowers,  their  colour,  their 
very  existence,  are  in  direct  connection  with  the  mystery 
of  that  communicated  life :  and  all  the  strength,  and  all 
the  arts  of  men,  are  measured  by,  and  founded  upon, 
their  reverence  for  the  passion,  and  their  guardianship 
of  the  purity  of  Love.  —  The  Eaglets  Nest,  sec.  169. 


NOTES. 


RUSKIN  THE  REVEALEK  OF  NATURE. 

Page  30.  Poetry  will  be  found  to  illustrate,  better  than  any  word 
of  comment,  these  prose-poems  of  Ruskin.  Vaughan,  Wordsworth, 
and  Shelley  are  of  closer  spiritual  kin  to  him  than  any  prose-writer, 
even  Thoreau  or  Jeffries.  Of  the  wealth  of  comparative  material  to 
be  found  in  these  poets  and  others,  only  a  few  hints  can  here  be 
offered;  but  the  loving  student,  if  he  have  leisure,  can  illumine 
almost  every  sentence  of  these  selections  by  kindred  interpretations 
from  those  "  priests  of  Nature,"  the  poets. 

P.  32.  The  Consecration.  To  Wordsworth,  a  like  solemn 
moment  came  at  sunrise.  See  "The  Prelude,"  Book  IV.,  lines  320, 
340.  Wordsworth's  account  of  the  gradual  education  of  his  child- 
spirit  by  nature,  given  in  the  first  four  books  of  "The  Prelude," 
should  be  compared  with  lluskin's  hints,  scattered  through  "  Prae- 
terita."  Ruskin,  like  Wordsworth,  might  say  of  his  soul,  responding 
to  the  passion  of  nature,  — 

"  I  was  as  sensitive  as  waters  are 
To  the  sky's  influence  in  a  kindred  mood 
Of  passion  :  was  obedient  as  a  lute 
That  waits  upon  tlie  touches  of  the  wind." 

Pp.  33,  36.  Air  and  Clouds.  The  first  selection  here  should  be 
minutely  analyzed.  Apparently  a  glowing  outburst  of  sentiment,  it 
is  really  a  close,  comprehensive,  exact,  scientific  study;  every  word 
carries  the  weight  of  a  distinct  fact. 

P.  3(5.  Compare  Shelley,  "Lines  written  among  the  Euganean 
Hills." 

P.  41.    Water.     Cf.  Shelley's  poem,  "  The  Recollection:  " — 

"  We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 
Under  the  forest  bough; 
Each  seemed  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulf'd  in  a  world  below; 


^48  JOHN  RUSK  IN. 

A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  chirk  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night. 

And  purer  than  the  day  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  tlie  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there." 

Page  41.  Compare,  with  this  passage  on  the  Rhone,  a  beautiful 
little  poem  on  the  "Waterfall,"  by  Henry  Vaughan,  a  poet  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  wlio  loved  nature  with  the  soul  of  the  nine- 
teentli.     The  poem  begins:  — 

"  With  what  deep  murmurs,  through  Time's  silent  stealth, 
Dost  thy  transparent,  cool,  and  watery  wealth 

Here  flowing  fall. 

And  cliide  and  call, 
As  if  his  liquid  loose  retinue  stayed 
Lingering,  and  were  of  this  steep  jjjace  afraid;  — 

The  common  pass 

As  clear  as  glass. 

All  must  descend. 

Not  to  an  end, 
But,  quickened  by  this  deep  and  rocky  grave, 
Rise  to  a  longer  course,  more  bright  and  brave." 

P.  43.  Mountains.  Compare  Browning,  in  "  James  Lee's 
AVife:"  — 

"  Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  tlie  brown  old  earth. 
This  Autumn  morning!     How  he  sets  his  bones 
To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth." 

P.  45.     Compare  Emerson,  in  "  Monadnock  :  "  — 

"  Hither  we  bring 
Our  insect  miseries  to  thy  rocks; 
And  the  whole  flight,  with  folded  wing. 
Vanish,  and  end  their  ninrnuiring  — 
Vanish  beside  these  dedicated  blocks, 
Which  who  can  tell  what  mason  laid?  " 

P.  47.  Vegetation.  Tliis  fragment  is  given  as  an  instance  of 
Iluskin's  luminous  power  of  classificatiou. 


NOTES.  249 

Page  54.    Tliis  suggestion  of  an  almost  human  character  in  the 
leaves  recalls  Sidney  Lanier,  in  his  "  Sunrise:  "  — 
"  Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms. 
Ye  consciences  miirnuiring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  encli  passion  that  grieves. 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetlieart  leaves  — 

Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence,  —  preach  me 

The  passion  of  patience,  —  sift  me,  —  impeach  me,  — 

Anil  there,  oh  there. 
As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air 

I'ray  me  a  myriafl  prayer." 

P.  57.  Vignettes.  These  short  word-pictures  are  introduced  in 
order  that  the  student  may  carefully  analyze  Kuskin's  wonderful 
power  of  presenting  the  whole  landscape  — aspect  and  emotion  — in 
a  dozen  lines.  Every  word  deserves  separate  study,  and  will  be 
found,  as  a  rule,  to  give  to  the  passage,  not  only  an  added  beauty,  but 
an  essential  truth. 

P.  58.    Alpine  Architecture.    Compare  Arnold :  — 
"  Hark!  fast  by  the  window 
Tlie  rusliing  winds  go, 
To  the  ice-cumbered  gorges. 

The  vast  seas  of  snow ! 
There  the  torrents  drive  upward 

Their  rock-strangled  lium; 

There  the  avalanche  thunders 

The  lioarse  torrent  dumb." 

P.  50.  Distant  Peaks.  Compare  Shelley,  in  the  "  Prometheus 
Unbound : " — 

"  And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains. 
From  icy  spires  of  sun-like  radiance  tiing 
The  dawn." 

P.  GO.  The  Breaker  on  the  Rocks.  Of  this  sentence,  from  the 
"Harbours  of  England,"  Kuskin  has  lately  told  us  that  he  is  really 
proud!  I£e  misquotes  his  own  words,  however;  his  later  version  is: 
"One  moment,  a  tlint  cave;  the  next,  a  marble  pillar;  the  next,  a 
fading  cloud." 


250  JOUN  BUSKIN. 

Page  69.    The  Secret  of  the  3Iist.    This  is  the  message  so  con- 
stantly and  nobly  reiterated  to  the  century  by  Robert  Browning :  — 

"  You  must  mix  some  uncertainty 
With  faith,  if  you  would  have  faith  be." 

P.  70.    Natural  3Iyths.    Compare  Vaughan,  as  he  speaks  of  the 
siguifiGauce  nature  once  had  for  liim :  — 

"  When  yet  I  had  not  wallced  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 
And  looking  back  —  at  that  short  space  — 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face :  — 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud,  or  flower, 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  Eternity." 

Also  Emerson,  in  his  essay  on  Nature :  —  "  Every  natural  fact  is  a 
symbol  of  some  spiritual  fact.  Every  appearance  in  nature  corre- 
sponds to  some  state  of  the  mind,  and  that  state  of  the  mind  can  only 
be  described  by  presenting  that  natural  appearance  as  its  picture.  .  .  . 
It  is  easily  seen  that  there  is  nothing  lucky  or  capricious  in  these 
analogies,  but  that  they  are  constant,  and  pervade  nature." 

P.  81.  Liviii<5  Nature.  This  passage  contains  Kuskin's  comments 
on  the  great  evolution  theory.  It  will  be  seen  that,  while  laughing  at 
some  of  its  cruder  phases,  he  is  quite  ready  to  accept  some  of  its  nobler 
results ;  but  the  one  truth  that  he  reiterates  with  constant  earnestness 
is,  that  the  question  of  method  of  creation  is  utterly  subordinate  to  the 
greater  questions  of  source  of  creation,  and  the  effect  of  created  nature 
upon  the  soul. 

P.  84.  This  is  the  great  conception  -which  has  always  inspired 
mystics  and  poets,  but  which  was,  until  our  century,  viewed  by 
science  as  an  imaginative  figment.  It  is  the  glory  of  modern  science, 
however,  to  have  corroborated  the  synthesis  of  the  imagination,  by 
unfolding  before  us  the  vision  of  the  Persistence  or  Unity  of  Force. 
To  the  eye  of  the  scientist,  this  Force  is  not  yet  proved  to  be  Life ; 
but,  to  the  faith  of  the  poet,  it  must  ever  be  so.  Perhaps  here,  too, 
poetry  will  prove  the  i:)recursor  of  science.    Meanwhile,  the  faith  in 


NOTES.  251 

the  Life  in  Nature  is  nowhere  more  truthfully  given  than  in  Words- 
worth's glorious  and  familiar  lines:  — 

"I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man: 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

—  Lines  written  above  Tintern  Abbey. 

RUSKIN   THE   CRITIC    OF   ART. 

Page  94.  The  Imagination.  These  passages  from  the  second 
volume  of  "Modern  Painters  "  are  of  interest  so  great  and  guidance 
so  helpful  that  they  are  introduced,  although  Mr.  Ruskin,  reprinting 
the  volume  in  1883,  makes  severe  fun  of  his  youthful  self,  and  sharply 
criticises  many  details  of  his  treatment.  But  the  book  was  written, 
he  tells  us,  "  day  after  day  with  higher  kindled  feeling; "  and  it  pos- 
sesses the  insight  of  enthusiasm. 

P.  98.  The  Po^ver  of  Famine.  A  reference  to  Dante's  "In- 
ferno," XXXIII.  20-90. 

P.  102.  The  Temper  of  the  Artist.  All  thoughtful  critics 
agree  in  ascribing  to  genius  this  strange  passivity,  E.  S.  Dallas  calls 
"  unconsciousness  the  highest  law  of  poetry ;  "  his  definition  of  poetry 
is,  "the  imaginative,  harmonious,  and  unconscious  activity  of  the 
soul." 

P.  106.  Compare  George  Eliot,  in  "Adam  Bede,"  chap,  xxxiii., 
on  the  beauty  of  a  foolish  woman. 

P.  110.  Three  Schools  of  Art.  Purist  Idealism.  In  his  youth 
this  was  the  school  of  art  best  loved  by  Ruskin.  See  the  conclusion 
of  the  second  volume  of  "Modern  Painters."  But  his  Venetian 
studies  taught  him  the  power  of  the  great  Naturalists,  Titian  and 
Tintoret ;  and  "  ever  since  the  '  Stones  of  Venice '  was  written,  Titian 
was  given  in  all  my  art  teaching  as  a  standard  of  perfection."  See 
"  Fors  Clavigera,"  Letter  76,  for  a  singularly  interesting  account  of 
the  effect  of  this  change  of  standard  on  his  religious  attitude. 


252  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

Page  114.     Compare  Browning,  "  Old  Masters  in  Florence:  "  — 

"On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early  painters, 

To  cries  of  '  Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish  you  ?  ' 
Replied,  '  To  become  now  self-acquainters. 
And  paint  man,  man,  whatever  the  issue.'  " 

And  again,  in  "  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,"  —  a  poem  which  is  throughout  a 
commentary  on  these  passages  from  Ruskin  — the  truant  monk  quotes 
his  critics :  — 

"  '  Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul  — 

Here's  Giotto,  with  his  saint  a-praising  God! 

That  sets  you  praising,  —  why  not  stop  with  him? 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  heads 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colour,  and  what  not? 

Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms ! ' 

Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask? 
A  fair  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  farther, 
And  can't  fare  worse !  .  .  . 

You've  seen  the  world, 
The  beauty,  and  the  wonder,  and  the  power. 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colours,  lights  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all!  — 
For  what?    Do  you  feel  thankful?    Aye,  or  no? 

.  .  .  What's  it  all  about? 
To  be  passed  o'er,  despised?    Or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last,  of  course,  you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  —  paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it, 
God's  works  —  paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  slip." 

P.  115.  The  Development  of  Landscape  Art.  This  long 
passage,  much  condensed,  is  given  from  an  early  lecture,  not  because 
it  is  beautiful,  but  because  it  presents  a  summary  of  the  main  trend 
and  conclusions  of  "  Modern  Painters."  See  especially  the  chapters 
in  Vol.  III.  on  Classical,  Mediaeval,  and  Modern  Landscape. 

P.  117.  See  "The  Two  Paths,"  Lecture  III.,  for  a  full  discussion 
of  conventional  and  decorative  art. 

P.  118.  The  whole  study  of  the  Renascence,  in  the  third  volume 
of  the  "  Stones  of  Venice,"  is  an  amplification  of  this  passage. 


yoTES.  253 

Page  125.  In  "The  Iris  of  tlie  Earth,"  Deucalion,  chap,  vii., 
Riiskin  gives  us  a  beaiitiful  study  of  the  rainbow  hues,  in  their  sym- 
bolism, as  found  in  the  characteristic  gems  of  heraldry. 

P.  lol.  In  these  closing  passages  will  be  found  suggestions  of  the 
order  of  thought  by  which  Rnskin  was  led  to  change  the  chief  interest 
of  his  life  from  Art  to  Economics.  The  half-liumourous  caricature  of 
the  next  paragraph  still  has  its  foundation  of  fact  in  the  immense 
spread  of  disfiguring  manufactures  over  the  pastoral  country  of 
England. 

RUSKI^f  THE    STUDENT   OF   SOCIOLOGY. 

P.  145.  Foolish  men  imagine  that,  becaixse  judgment  for  an  evil 
thing  is  delayed,  there  is  no  justice  but  an  accidental  one  here  below. 
Judgment  for  an  evil  thing  may  he  delayed  some  day  or  two,  some 
century  or  two,  but  it  is  sure  as  life,  it  is  sure  as  death  !  In  the  centre 
of  the  whirlwind,  verily  now  as  in  the  oldest  days,  dwells  and  speaks 
a  god.  Carlyle,  "  Past  and  Present,"  chap.  ii. 
P.  14(3.    Arraignment. 

"  We  live  by  admiration,  hope  and  love, 
And  even  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  placed 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend. 

Wordsworth,  Excursion,  Book  IV. 

Vehement  in  language,  and,  for  Americans,  somewhat  exagger- 
ated in  substance,  this  solemn  indictment  of  modern  corruptions 
has,  nevertheless,  sufficient  literal  truth  to  commend  it  to  thought. 
It  still  holds  good  to  some  extent  on  every  point,  unless  in  regard 
to  modern  conceit  and  self-complacency.  These  qualities  are  assur- 
edly less  marked  in  contemporary  thought  than  they  were  when 
this  passage  was  written,  twenty  years  ago. 

P.  149.  Wealth  and  Life.  Here,  Rnskin  formulates  his  convic- 
tion of  the  relation  of  human  choice  to  economic  law,  and  the  effect 
of  moral  facts  upon  economic  conditions.  Compare  Carlyle,  "Past 
and  Present,"  Book  I.,  chaps,  i.  and  ii. :  —  "We  can  spend  thousands 
where  we  once  spent  hundreds,  but  can  purchase  nothing  good  with 
them.  In  poor  and  rich,  instead  of  noble  thrift  and  plenty,  there  is  idle 
luxury  alternating  with  mean  scarcity  and  inabilitj'.  We  have  sumpt- 
uous garnitures  for  our  Life,  but  have  forgotten  to  live  in  the  midst  of 
them.     It  is  enchanted  wealth ;  no  man  of  us  can  yet  touch  it.  .  .  . 


254  JOHN  BUSKIN. 

To  whom,  then,  is  this  wealth  of  England  wealth  ?  Who  is  it  that  it 
blesses?  As  yet  no  one.  We  have  more  riches  than  any  nation  ever 
had  before;  we  have  less  good  of  them  than  any  nation  ever  had 
before.  .  .  ." 

P.  156.  The  State  and  the  Workman.  Here  is  the  best  defence 
and  explanation  Ruskin  offers  of  his  miich-attaclied  dislike  of  steam 
machinery.  It  will  be  seen  that  there  is  a  certain  principle  underlying 
his  eccentricity.  His  disbelief  in  railroads  and  steam  has,  however, 
been  exaggerated,  largely  because  of  his  whimsical  methods  of  expres- 
sion. He  tells  us  in  all  soberness  that  he  would  use  steam-power  for 
reclaiming  waste-lands  and  doing  work  on  a  vast  scale  where  human 
force  is  insufficient.  He  would  abolish  "  most  of  the  railroads  in 
England  and  all  in  Wales;"  but  he  explains  that  he  would  retain 
lines  of  railroad  (run  by  government)  between  great  centres,  while  not 
permitting  them  to  deface  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  world.  (See 
Letters  on  the  Management  of  Railways  in  the  collection  entitled 
"  On  the  Old  Road.")  His  own  use  of  railroads  he  defends  by  assert- 
ing that,  were  the  devil  himself  at  his  elbow,  he  should  utilize  him 
as  a  local  black ! 

P.  159.  This  plea  for  government  employment  for  the  unemployed 
sounded  strange  indeed  when  first  made  by  Ruskin.  Carlyle,  in 
"Past  and  Present,"  Book  IV.,  chaps,  iv.  and  v.,  and  in  Latter  Day 
Pamphlets,  "  Tlie  Present  Time,"  makes  the  same  plea,  with  much  cau- 
tion and  the  proud  assurance  of  being  greeted  with  derision.  He  jjuts 
it  into  the  mouth  of  his  hypothetic  and  ideal  Prime  Minister;  but  as 
soon  as  that  worthy  deigns  to  pronounce  the  revolutionary  words 
"  Organization  of  Labour,"  his  horrified  audience  desert  him  in  a  body, 
and  he  is  "'left  speaking,'  says  the  reporter."  Now,  this  demand 
for  State  control  of  labour  is  growing  yearly  in  weight,  and  in  some 
details  is  already  met. 

P.  161.  Fallacies.  This  idea,  that  it  does  not  matter  for  what 
purposes  money  is  spent,  since  it  must  encourage  some  industry  or 
other,  is  entertained,  strangely  enough,  by  many  excellent  and  intel- 
ligent people.  Kingsley,  in  the  thirty-ninth  chapter  of  "Alton 
Locke,"  discusses  and  demolishes  it  as  completely  as  Ruskin  does 
here. 

P.  169.  Justice  and  Equality.  It  will  be  obvious  from  these 
jiassages  how  deeply  Ruskin  believes  in  the  necessity  of  just  and 
varying  rewards  for  honest  labour. 


NOTES.  255 

Page  175.  Elsewliere,  Raskin,  acknowledging  tlie  degrading  influ- 
ence of  certain  forms  of  necessary  work,  proposes  tliat  ardent  young 
High-Cburclinicn,  instead  of  turning  curates,  sliould  prove  the  reality 
of  their  desire  for  self-immolation  by  becoming  butchers  and  green- 
grocers. 

P.  178.  Prospect  and  Present  Duty.  Carlyle  says,  to  the 
individual,  "  TIiou,  there,  the  thing  for  thee  to  do  is,  if  possible,  to 
cease  to  be  a  hollow  sounding-shell  of  hearsays,  egoisms,  jjurbliad 
dilettanteisms;  and  become,  were  it  on  the  infinitely  small  scale,  a 
faithful,  discerning  soul.  .  .  .  O  brother,  we  must,  if  possible,  resusci- 
tate some  soul  and  conscience  in  us.  Exchange  .  .  .  our  dead  hearts 
of  stone  for  living  hearts  of  tlesh.  Then  shall  we  discern,  not  one 
thing,  but  in  clearer  or  dimmer  sequence,  a  whole  endless  host  of 
things  that  can  be  done.  Bo  the  first  of  these ;  do  it ;  the  second  will 
already  have  become  clearer,  doabler." 

P.  179.  "  There  will  a  radical,  universal  alteration  of  your  regi- 
men and  way  of  life  take  i)lace;  there  will  a  most  agonizing  divorce 
between  you  and  your  chimeras,  luxuries,  and  falsities  take  place ;  a 
most  toilsome,  ail-but  '  impossible  '  return  to  Nature  and  her  veraci- 
ties and  integrities  take  place ;  that  so  the  inner  fountains  of  life  may 
again  begin,  like  eternal  Light-fountains  to  irradiate  and  pixrify  your 
bloated,  swollen,  foul  existence,  drawing  nigh,  as  at  present,  to  name- 
less death."  —  Past  and  Present,  Book  I.,  chap.  iv. 

It  will  be  noticed  how  much  more  tender  and  more  Christian  is  the 
tone  of  Ruskin  than  the  tone  of  Carlyle. 

P.  182.  The  aieicliant  Chivalry.  "The  Leaders  of  Industry,  if 
Industry  is  ever  to  be  led,  are  virtually  the  Captains  of  the  "World; 
if  there  is  no  nobleness  in  them,  there  will  never  be  an  Aristocracy 
more.  .  .  .  Let  the  Captains  of  Industry  retire  into  their  own  hearts, 
and  ask  solemnly.  If  there  is  nothing  but  vulturous  hunger  for  fine 
wines,  valet  reputation,  and  gilt  carriages  discoverable  there?  Of 
hearts  made  by  the  Almighty  God,  I  will  not  believe  such  a  thing." 
—  Past  and  Preseyit,  Book  IV.,  chap.  iv. 

P.  189.  St.  George's  Guild.  Mr.  Ruskin  says  that,  although  the 
Creed  of  St.  George  is  to  be  broad  enough  to  include  all  God-fearing 
persons,  the  laws  are  to  be  distinctively  Christian. 

P.  191.  The  Project.  This  beautiful  modern  vision  of  the  Ideal 
State  should  be  carefully  compared  with  More's  "  Utopia,"  Bacon's 
"  New  Atlantis,"  and  Campanella's  "  City  of  the  Sun."    It  is  interest- 


256  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

iiig  to  note  that,  while  in  every  century  men  of  letters  have  delighted 
themselves  with  dreams  of  social  perfection,  it  is  only  the  man  of  the 
nineteenth  century  who  tries  to  transmute  his  ideal  into  practical 
reality.  The  partial  failure  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  noble  effort  does  not 
alter  the  signiticance  of  the  fact  that  the  effort  should  have  been 
made.  The  twentieth  century  may  accomplish  that  translation  of 
ideal  into  real  which  it  is  the  glory  of  our  century  to  have  attempted. 

Page  192.  This  idea  of  the  education  of  boys  is,  in  some  respects, — 
notably  in  the  emphasis  placed  on  jihysical  training,  —  mucli  like  that 
of  Milton.  Milton  plans  for  boys  to  become  hunters,  fowlers,  fishers, 
shepherds,  gardeners,  apothecaries,  architects,  mariners,  engineers, 
anatomists.  They  are  to  practise  fencing  and  wrestling  and  military 
tactics;  they  are  to  gain  familiarity  with  the  resources  of  their  own 
country;  further,  they  are  to  know  the  great  Latin  and  Greek 
authors;  and,  as  they  grow  older,  to  study  the  sciences,  geograpliy, 
ancient  and  modern,  agriculture  (as  taught  by  Latin  authors),  botany, 
zoology,  and  elementary  medicine.  Advanced  students  are  to  become 
familiar  with  ethics,  classical  and  Biblical,  with  economics,  and  with 
the  great  modern  literatures. 

Ruskin's  ideas  also  owe  something  to  the  old  Persian  method,  by 
which  noble  youths  were  taught  "to  ride  and  speak  the  truth." 

"  We  once,'"  says  Ruskin,  "  taught  our  youths  to  write  Latin  verses, 
and  called  them  educated ;  now  we  teach  them  to  leap  and  to  row,  to 
hit  a  ball  with  a  bat,  and  call  them  educated." 

JNIr.  Ruskin,  before  his  illness,  was  ijlanning  to  write  for  St. 
George's  schools,  "Studies  in  the  History  of  Christendom,  for  Boys 
and  Girls  who  have  been  held  at  its  Fonts."  "  The  Bible  of  Amiens" 
was  the  only  portion  completed. 

In  this  idea  of  memorial  song  night  and  morning,  Mr.  Ruskin, 
curiously  enough,  reproduces  the  plan  of  the  great  Frenchman, 
Auguste  Conite,  whom  he  cordially  dislikes. 

P.  195.  This  concluding  passage  may  serve,  indeed,  as  a  summary 
of  the  essential  phases,  critical  and  constructive,  of  Mr.  Ruskin's 
social  theories.  For  his  concejjtion  of  the  duty  and  office  of  the 
clergy,  see  "Notes  on  the  Construction  of  Sheepfolds,"  the  lecture 
on  Kings'  Treasuries  in  "  Sesame  and  Lilies,"  and  Letter  XIII.  in 
"  Time  and  Tide." 


NOTES.  257 


RUSKIN   THE    TEACHER   OF   ETHICS. 

Page  198.  "  I've  stubbed  Thurnaby  Waaste,"  are  the  proud  Mords 
of  Tennyson's  old  Northern  Farmer — amanafterRuskin's  own  heart 
—  reviewing  his  past  life  on  his  deathbed :  — 

"Dubbut  looke  at  the  waaste;  tlieer  warn't  not  feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzy,  an'  looke  at  it  now — 
Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haiicre,  an'  now  theer's  lot's  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  doon  i'  seead." 

P.  201.  A  reference  to  the  "  Phsedrus  "  of  Plato :  —  "Let  us  say 
that  the  soul  resembles  the  combined  efficacy  of  a  pair  of  winged 
steeds  and  a  charioteer.  ...  Of  these  horses  he  [the  charioteer]  iinds 
one  generous  and  of  generous  breed,  the  other  of  opposite  descent 
and  opposite  character.  And  tlius  it  necessarily  follows  that  driving 
in  our  case  is  no  easy  or  agreeable  work ;  .  .  .  for  they  [the  chariots] 
are  burdened  by  the  horse  of  vicious  temper,  which  sways  and  sinks 
them  towards  the  eartli,  if  haply  he  has  no  good  training  from  his 
charioteer.  Whereupon  there  awaits  tlie  soul  a  crowning  pain  and 
agony.  For  .  .  .  that  [soul]  which  follows  a  god  most  closely,  and 
resembles  him  most  nearly,  succeeds  in  raising  the  head  of  its  chari- 
oteer into  the  outer  region,  and  is  carried  round  with  the  immortals 
iu  their  revolution,  though  sorely  encumbered  hy  its  horses,  and  barely 
able  to  contemplate  the  real  existences;  wliile  another  rises  and  sinks 
by  turns,  his  horses  plunging  so  violently  that  he  can  discern  no  more 
than  a  part  of  these  existences.  But  the  common  herd  follow  at  a 
distance,  all  of  tliem,  indeed,  burning  with  desire  for  the  upper  world; 
but,  failing  to  reach  it,  thej'  make  the  revolution  iu  the  moisture  of 
the  lower  element,  trampling  on  one  another,  and  striking  against 
one  another,  in  their  efforts  to  rush  one  before  the  other.  Henco 
ensues  the  extremest  turmoil  and  struggling  and  sweating;  and  herein, 
by  the  awkwardness  of  the  drivers,  many  souls  are  maimed,  and  many 
lose  many  feathers  in  the  crush  ;  and  all  after  painful  labour  go  away 
witliout  being  blessed  by  admission  to  tlie  spectacle  of  truth,  and 
thenceforth  live  on  the  food  of  mere  opinion.  ...  I  divided  eveiy 
soul  into  three  parts,  two  of  them  resembling  horses,  and  the  third  a 
charioteer.  .  .  .  That  horse  of  the  two  which  occupies  the  nobler 
rank  is  in  form  erect  and  firmly  knit,  high-necked,  hook-nosed,  white- 
colored,  black-eyed ;  he  loves  honour  with  temperance  and  modesty. 


258  JOHN  UUSEIN. 

and,  a  votary  of  genuine  glory,  he  is  driven,  witlioiit  stroke  of  the 
whip,  by  voice  and  reason  alone.  The  bad  horse,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  croolied,  balky,  clumsily  put  together,  with  thick  neck,  short  throat, 
flat  face,  black  coat,  gray  and  bloodshot  eyes,  a  friend  to  all  riot  and 
insolence,  shaggy  about  the  ears,  dull  of  hearing,  scarce  yielding  to 
lash  and  goad  united.  Whenever,  therefore,  the  driver  sees  the  sight 
which  inspires  love,  .  .  .  the  obedient  horse,  yielding  tlien  as  ever  to 
the  check  of  shame,  restrains  himself;  .  .  .  but  the  other  pays  heed 
no  longer  to  his  driver's  goad  or  lash,  but  struggles  on  with  unruly 
bounds,  and  doing  all  violence  to  his  yoke-fellow  and  master.  .  .  . 
And  when  he  is  recovered  from  the  pain  which  the  bit  intiicted,  and 
has  with  difficulty  regained  his  breath,  [he]  breaks  out  into  railing  at 
his  master  and  his  comrade  for  their  treacherous  cowardice ;  ...  he 
stoops  his  head  and  gets  the  bit  between  his  teeth,  and  drags  them  on 
incontinently.  But  the  driver  experiences  the  same  sensation  as  at 
first ;  backward  he  falls  like  racers  at  tlie  barrier,  and,  with  a  wrench 
still  more  violent  than  before,  pulls  back  the  bit  from  between  the 
teeth  of  the  riotous  horse,  thereby  drenching  his  jaws  and  railing 
tongue  with  blood,  and  bruising  against  the  ground  his  legs  and 
haunches,  consigns  him  to  anguish.  But  as  soon  as,  by  this  treatment 
oft  repeated,  the  evil  horse  is  recovered  from  his  vice;  he  follows  with 
hiimbled  steps  the  guidance  of  his  driver,  and  at  the  sight  of  the  fair 
one  is  consumed  with  terror.  So  that  then,  and  not  till  then,  does  it 
happen  that  the  soul  of  the  lover  follows  his  beloved  with  raverence 
and  3iyve."—PhsBdriis,  Plato,  Wright's  Translation. 

Page  202.  The  "  Wrath  of  Achilles,"  with  which  the  Iliad  opens, 
was  caused  by  the  injustice  whereby  the  hero  had  been  robbed  of  his 
fair  captive.  So  ^neas  exclaims  in  conflict  that  he  is  but  the  instru- 
ment of  the  righteous  anger  of  Pallas. 

P.  204.  "This  your  fair  city"  is,  of  course,  Oxford,  to  whose 
students  this  lecture  was  delivered. 

P.  205.  "Qui  non  accepit,"  Ps.  xxiv.  4,  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 
This  selection  illustrates  Euskin's  beautiful  and  half-instinctive  use 
of  the  Bible. 

P.208.  Compare  Carlyle:  "Liberty?  Thetrueliberty  of  aman,you 
would  say,  consisted  in  his  finding  out,  or  being  forced  to  find  out,  the 
right  path,  and  to  walk  thereon.  To  learn,  or  to  be  taught,  Avhat  work 
he  actually  was  able  for;  and  then,  by  permission,  persuasion,  and 
even  compulsion,  to  set  about  doing  of  the  same!     That  is  his  true 


NOTES.  259 

blessedness,  honour,  'liberty,'  and  maximum  of  well-being:  if  lib- 
erty be  not  that,  I  for  one  have  small  care  about  liberty.  .  .  .  Liberty 
requires  new  definitions."  —  Fast  and  Present,  Book  III.,  ch.  xiii. 

In  Lecture  VIII.  of  "  Val  d'Arno,"  Ruskin  gives  some  beautiful 
hints  concerning  his  ideas  of  true  liberty  or  "  franchise." 

Page  220.  "  Let  Alone,"  or  "  Laisser  Aller,"  is  the  great  watchword 
of  the  Manchester  school  of  economics  and  politics.  Its  chief  expo- 
nent to-day  is  Herbert  Spencer. 

P.  220.     Compare  Browning:  — 

"  Rejoice  that  man  is  hurled 
Froni  change  to  change  unceasingly, 
His  soul's  wings  never  furled." 

P.  233.  "Consider  how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  labour,  the 
whole  soul  of  a  man  is  composed  into  a  kind  of  real  harmony  the 
instant  he  sets  himself  to  work !  .  .  .  Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his 
work:  let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness.  .  .  .  Labour  is  life;  from 
the  inmost  heart  of  the  worker  rises  his  God-given  force,  the  sacred, 
celestial  life  essence  breathed  into  him  by  Almighty  God."  —  Fast 
and  Fresent,  Book  III.,  chap.  xi. 

P.  235.  A  reference  to  the  Famine  of  Orissa  (a  province  of 
India)  that  occurred  in  18GG.  "During  the  thirty-five  years,  from 
1831-1832  to  1860-1807,  Government  had  to  remit  £257,939  of  its 
Orissa  rental  for  droughts  alone,  or  £455,:3(J5  for  the  combined  effects 
of  droughts  and  floods.  ...  In  1770,  ten  million  peasants  suffered 
the  last  agonies  of  hunger,  and  one-third  of  all  Bengal  lay  waste  and 
silent  for  twenty  years.  ...  In  1860  the  same  province  suffered  a 
famine  equally  severe ;  but  our  modern  facilities  of  intercommunica- 
tion, and  liberal,  though  tardy  application  of  money,  reduced  the 
mortality  to  less  than  one-tenth  of  what  it  was  in  1770,  and  only  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  British  subjects  died  of  starvation.  One- 
fourth  of  the  whole  population  of  Orissa  was,  however,  swept  away."  — 
Orissa,  by  "W".  W.  Hunter,  London,  1872. 

P.  241.  The  modern  movement  for  improved  tenements  for  the 
poor  shows  that  men  have  at  least  begun  to  realize  their  responsi- 
bilities and  their  pf)wers  in  this  matter. 

P.  243.  Buskin  says  that  the  gist  of  all  his  teaching  is  to  be  found 
in  this  passage,  from  the  words  "The  work  of  men  —  and  what  is 
that  ?  " 


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